Bound to You
by eleventhwarrior125
Summary: "They couldn't stay still, lest the things they were hiding from catch up to them to swallow them whole and drive them to madness." After Vincent saves Catherine all those years ago, she decides to follow him and heal the man hiding behind the Beast.
1. Fear

**AN: I wasn't in the mood to write smut for my other story quite yet, so this little thing popped into my head. Basically, Vincent has his own cabin a couple miles from where Catherine's mom was killed. On the night he first saves Catherine's life, Catherine follows him to his cabin in the woods, where she discovers the man hiding behind the Beast. Each chapter shall carry the theme of a word which will be defined at the beginning of each chapter. **

_fear: a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid_

Fear in movies always looked scary enough. Usually the blond ingénue in any horror film stared wide-eyed past the camera and let out a wrenching scream whenever the incredibly gory menace appeared. The villain was always some hideous monster with a marred, grotesque face. Almost invariably, something in its past had caused it to curl inward, any dredges of humanity left locked behind the confines of its evil heart.

Catherine could never have imagined that the real monsters in this world carried guns and rode in cars. The worst monsters in the world were the ones that killed her mother. Mama Chandler protected her daughter to the bitter end, pushing her towards the car. Catherine couldn't even scream when the bullets ripped through her mother's body, the sound strangling itself in her throat. She didn't even have time to mourn her loss, even tell her mom that she loved her before the gunmen aimed at her.

She sprinted off into the woods, the cold air whistling into her wheezing lungs, the frozen ground crumbling under the soles of her boots. She wove her way between trees, over stumps and past a creek before a felled young sapling caught her unaware. The only warmth she could feel as she rolled over was from the blood that ran down her face, the pain slamming into her like a truck. Cat heard herself plead the men to spare her as they squared their sights. She squeezed her eyes shut just as they were about to pull the trigger.

This fear was something far worse than what could be portrayed in any cheesy slasher. This fear was smothering her, choking the breath out of her as she struggled to come to terms with the fact that she would feel the impact of the bullets any moment now.

The bullets never came, instead a rather sickening ripping noise made her open her eyes. Their screams were wet as they spurted from their torn throats. Whatever was ripping them apart did so with a fire in its heart, its claws tearing flesh and limbs faster than any bullet could've traveled. Catherine did not scream now either, both because she wouldn't have had time to and because she was no longer afraid. The bodies of the men crumpled to the ground like pitiful sacks of flour, their insidious DNA running together in the blood-soaked earth.

The Beast turned its golden eyes upon her, pinning her under its piercing glare like a falcon holding its prey under sharp talons. Her heart quickened as the fear returned in a smaller quantity: merely instinctual fear of the unknown. Her fingers dug into the soil as she tried to sit up, but found herself being forced back by a wave of pain. It seemed she had fractured a few ribs in her fall, as well as a torn ligament in her wrist.

"P-please," Catherine groaned, her mouth salty with the taste of her own blood, "I c-can't." She tried sitting up again, but her left wrist twisted painfully at the wrong angle. The Beast regarded her for a moment before approaching her with its arms outstretched. She cringed, again instinctually, shivering as her back arched against the frozen soil. The Beast grasped her right hand and pulled her to her feet. It would occur to her, hours later, that it hadn't wiped the blood from its hands before helping her.

It leaned Catherine rather gingerly against a tree before abruptly speeding off into the woods. Catherine naively thought it would return with a phone or some bandages, but after five minutes of waiting, she figured it wanted her to limp back to her own car.

But she couldn't. Even if she took a step in that direction, her body seized up in paralyzing fear. The knowledge that the corpse of her mother lay in a gruesome pose on the other side of the trees made bile rise up in her throat. Her hands shook, the transferred blood from the gunmen drying in a gory mockery of a glove. She cried, nothing loud or ostentatious, nothing heaving or sobbing so loud that it would startle the woodland creatures. It's not that she wasn't sad, she was, cripplingly so, but the pain from her fractured ribs scarcely allowed her a teary gasp.

"_Momma," _she whispered into the frozen darkness. She could do nothing for her mother now and she certainly couldn't face the task of repeating her story over and over for the police to just use to call her crazy.

Catherine instead turned in the direction of where the Beast had gone off to. Years of girl scout training had given her the skill to track rabbits and other cute woodland creatures, but the thing she now sought was far from cute. She steeled herself as she pushed off from the tree, cradling her broken wrist against her chest as she limped forward. Her tears froze on her cheeks as she followed the trail of gigantic boot prints in the mud where snow had melted the day before.

It was tedious work: picking her way over boulders and felled oaks with a couple of busted ribs was no picnic. Occasionally, Catherine rested on a stump to catch what was left of her breath, not letting her mind stray from the task at hand. Her fingers began to go white, the blood in her body rushing to warm her organs, and her toes weren't faring so well in her mud soaked boots. The cut on her forehead was beginning to swell a little bit, stinging every once in a while to remind her of its presence.

_What the fuck am I doing? _Her mind turned on her, jeering at her, telling her that the next step she takes would be her last. She could barely see the Beast's trail through her veil of tears, limping blindly, encumbered by the pain that shoot through her sporadically. Her nose was the next thing to go numb as her body struggled to stay warm under the thing she called a coat.

She remembered learning about hypothermia in high school. It started off with the body shivering, the extremities being drained of blood, and erratic thought processes. The second stage continued with the inability to form coherent thoughts, loss of motor function, and chronic pain. The last stage is the body stops shivering and any sense of cold is gone only to be replaced with numbness. So far, she was only in stage one, but if she didn't find whatever the hell she was looking for soon, she would be in deep trouble.

**Mwahahaha…cliffhangers! JK I'm posting the second chapter right after this one. Reviews are appreciated.**


	2. Doubt

**AN: If you're reading this that means that you made it through the first chapter and wanted more! I'll admit there were some redundancies, and I'm absolutely comma-happy. And I totally BS'd the stages of hypothermia. Oh well. Here's the second chapter then!**

_Doubt: a) to be uncertain about; consider questionable or unlikely; hesitate to believe. b) to distrust._

Catherine began to cough as cold seeped into her lungs through her aching throat, her broken ribs sending shockwaves of agony to ripple throughout the part of her body that wasn't already numb. She'd been limping through the woods for nearly a half an hour now, her broken left wrist cradled gingerly to her chest, fueled by some insane notion that the thing that saved her would…

_Would what? _She thought to herself. _Do I honestly believe that some Beast in shining armor would make everything better? _Her teeth chattered, jarring her jaw and sparking a growing headache. Had she even seen a Beast? Could she even trust her own eyes, especially after what she had seen?

Catherine nearly wept with joy as she spotted light spilling carelessly out of a window through the trees. Smoke curled up from a chimney to intertwine itself in the boughs of the coniferous trees. It was a quaint little wooden cabin, nestled quietly between the trees in the middle of nowhere. It looked like someone had pulled it straight out of _Little House on the Prairie_, somewhat lopsided but built with care.

The footprints of the supposed Beast led to the door of the cabin. Just as Cat was about to limp to the door, she saw movement inside the cabin. The silhouette was large and imposing as it seemed to peer out into the forest, past where Catherine had pinned herself behind a tree. Her sudden hesitation to reach out to it was surprising to say the least, especially when most of her extremities were completely numb and she was entering stage two of hypothermia. She didn't know what she was getting herself into.

Throwing caution to the bitter wind, Catherine staggered to the Beast's door and knocked with her unbroken hand. The feeling in her hand was so far gone that the knock barely registered.

"Hello?" She croaked, her throat parched and sore from crying. "I-I know you're in there. Please," tears threatened to fall, but she pushed them back as no answer came. She knocked for another minute or so before slumping in defeat against the door. Some of the heat from the fire inside the cabin leeched through the door.

_"Jesus fucking Christ_," she breathed, "I've lost it. Thought some Beast was out here. Stupid. _Stupid _Catherine," she berated herself as tremors shook her body. Her shivering was some last-ditch attempt from her body to keep itself warm, so acute that it shook the door she leaned upon. Her teeth continued to chatter, whimpers of pain escaping from her lips as her broken ribs and wrist were engulfed in flames.

Someone muttered, "_Fuck_," inside the cabin right before the door was flung open and Catherine was dragged inside. It slammed shut just as fast. She continued to shake as she looked up and saw not a Beast, but a very handsome man. An angry red, puckered scar ran a jagged line down the right side of his face. His eyes were dark brown, not a glaring yellow like the Beast's had been. Her mind raced because although this man was decidedly human, there was no mistaking his stature for any semblance other than the Beast's.

The man half-led, half-dragged Catherine towards the fire and sat her down on the rickety couch in front of it as she continued to shiver.

"Your body isn't catching up with the temperature change," he said, his voice as gravelly as, well, gravel. "Take off your jacket," he ordered. She tried pulling it off with one hand, her numb fingers grasping futilely at her zipper. Growling with impatience, he did it for her, murmuring an apology when she twisted her torso and bent her broken wrist in such a way to elicit a sob of pain from Catherine.

The frozen material was quickly replaced as the man draped the sweatshirt he had been wearing around her, his body heat warming her without them ever needing to touch. He stripped off her wet shoes and socks so he could tuck a dry towel around her slowly reddening feet.

"Your blood's returning to your extremities, so you probably don't have frostbite," he remarked as he stood to pour her something steaming from a kettle which was whistling merrily from its perch on the stove. Her hands felt like they were being burned, capillaries being singed inch by agonizing inch as her heart pumped blood back into her fingers and toes. The pain in her wrist seemed to intensify as well.

"Do you have any Ace bandages?" She asked, her lips so cracked that they began to bleed. He nodded and handed a roll of them and some scissors to her. Catherine had been wrapping her wrist for thirty seconds before he took the wrap from her and did it himself.

"Anything else broken?" She nodded.

"M-my ribs," she grunted, all this talking worsening her pain. Her breathing was labored as her exhaustion became more prevalent. His finger clasped the hem of her shirt before she quickly swatted them away.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Catherine demanded.

His defensiveness quickly turned to anger. "I'm trying to tape your ribs. Trust me, I'm a doctor." Cat stood up, holding her side.

"You're holed up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, I don't know your name, and you want me to _trust _you?" She held out her uninjured hand for the bandages. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it myself."

"_Fine,_" he slapped the roll of bandages into her hand much like a pouting child would. "First of all, your ribs are probably just cracked, because if they were actually broken, you'd be screaming still. Bind just above the highest cracked rib and wrap the bandage snugly around your torso two or three times. If you do it too tight, your lungs may collapse and if you do it too loose, the ribs won't heal properly. Repeat the process for each individual cracked rib."

"Jesus," she breathed, "You really are a doctor."

"Does that mean you're going to let me do it properly?" He asked, his tone rather patronizing.

"Absolutely not." Catherine headed into the bathroom and shut the door so that only a sliver of him could be seen. She refused to take her eyes off of him for fear he may run off, or worse, just turn out to be a figment of her imagination.

"You know," he said, averting his gaze to the floor as she stripped off his sweatshirt and her shirt, "I'm starting to think that you liked me better when I was tearing those guys apart."

"I don't trust men," she answered shortly, her fingers testing each of her ribs to check what was cracked and what was simply bruised. It turns out that three of her ribs were cracked on her right side.

"I think that's true for most women."

"We have good reason to be afraid."

He grunted in agreement. "I wish that wasn't true."

"Me, too," she said softly, letting her mind trail off as she put her shirt back on and left the bathroom. "Do you have a mirror in here somewhere?" She gestured to the dried blood caked on her forehead from her quickly healing cut.

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

"I can't look at myself anymore."

"Well you're going to have to get over that."

He scowled as he grabbed the towel he had used to keep her feet warm and ran it in the decrepit butcher's sink he had in the kitchen.

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?" He called over the sound of the steaming water.

"I'm pretty sure I inferred the question already," she replied.

"Vincent," he said, ringing out the excess water into a bowl and brought both to the couch where he gestured for her to sit again.

"Catherine-_ow_," she winced as the towel brushed over her grazed forehead.

"Well, Catherine-ow, welcome to my humble abode," he rinsed the towel in the bowl of water, which ran red with her own blood. The blood had partially congealed and partially frozen on her face in a bloody replica of Vincent's own facial scar.

"You're not just going to patch me up and throw me back out there, are you?" Catherine inquired, her eyes closed to avoid any bloody water from running in them.

"Absolutely not. Those men had backups, so they may come back to finish off any witnesses. That means you, sweetheart, and that kind of outcome would not be so great for me, either after I just saved your ass."

She raised her uninjured eyebrow, eyes still shut. "You seemed pretty keen on leaving me there before."

"There," he said, wiping the last of the blood from her face. Catherine opened her eyes to analyze him. "I was wondering," Vincent started, "why you didn't run from me? Why did you follow me after you saw me rip those guys apart?"

She smirked. "I think it'll take a lot more self-reflecting before I'll be able to answer that question."

"You might need a mirror for that, which I am sadly lacking," he deadpanned. It took her a second before she realized he was joking.

She giggled a little bit before her cracked ribs voiced their disdain for such a practice. "Ow, please don't make me laugh for a little while longer, Vincent."

"Sorry Catherine."

**Second chapter down, one million to go! Let me know if you spot any mistakes, and if y'all have any requests or recommendations for what's going to go on later in the story, PM me! Reviews are always appreciated. **


	3. Trauma

**AN: This chapter is going to go from fluffy to dark pretty quick. It's rated M for violence, so if war scenes bother you or trigger you in any way, stop reading here. It won't offend me one bit. I should warn y'all, Catherine and Vincent aren't just going to jump into bed with each other, especially with the recent trauma experienced by the both of them. It's going to take a lot of coming to terms with themselves before they can come to terms with each other. Enjoy!**

_trauma: : a). a body wound or shock produced by sudden physical injury, as from violence or accident. 2. psychiatry: a). an experience that produces psychological injury or pain._

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment or two, basking in the warmth from the fire, letting the heat seep into their bones. Catherine's eyelids drooped a little as the pain from her cracked ribs and broken wrist ebbed, bleeding into the background of her consciousness as exhaustion took over. Vincent stood abruptly, startling her into a slightly more awake state.

"I'm sorry, you must be tired," he apologized, "Do you wanna sleep on the couch or, I mean, you'll sleep alone, on my bed." He stammered out the last bit, trying ever so hard to be a gentleman after not talking to a woman for quite some time.

"No, it's fine. The couch is fine." Catherine stretched out horizontally as the ancient wooden beams creaked beneath the musty cushions. He handed her a blanket, which she promptly flung over her cold feet, for her socks still were drying out by the fire.

"Sleep tight, I guess," Vincent said awkwardly as he retreated into his bedroom on the right side of the fire place.

"Hey, Vincent," she called, propping herself up on her uninjured arm. He poked his head out. "Thank you for saving me. I guess I didn't get a chance to tell you that before." Vincent smiled kindly, not really knowing how to respond, and headed to bed. The cabin was left in darkness, save the small fire still merrily burning on in the hearth.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Catherine woke to a crash coming from somewhere in the cabin. The fire was long gone and the only light left was the moonlight seeping slowly through the grimy windows. Her heart pounded so hard her temples throbbed, her fingers tightening on the rough hem of the woolen blanket Vincent gave her.

_Vincent_, she thought worriedly to herself. Another crash resounded throughout the cabin, the sound of breaking glass woven into it. She flung aside the blanket and walked gingerly into his bedroom from which the noises were originating. Her hand groped the wall for the light switch, trying desperately to find his large form somewhere in the indiscernible darkness. She flipped the switch to find Vincent standing in the middle of his room with blood all over the floor.

His eyes were wild, unseeing, not quite comprehending where he was. His hands shook and his room was in disarray. He had knocked over a nightstand as well as the glass lamp which lay in shards on the floor. His feet were the source of the blood.

"_Jesus,"_ Catherine breathed, and suddenly regretted saying anything. His unfocused gaze was now aimed precisely at her, his still-human face twisted in a snarl. There was something in his eyes that broke her heart: fear. Blinding, suffocating fear was what had taken Vincent away from her. Summoning her courage, she tiptoed around the remnants of the broken lamp and grasped his shaking hands with her steady ones.

"Vincent," she said, trying to draw him to the surface. "I'm here, please, be here with me." His jaw clenched so tight he could have popped a blood vessel. Her grip remained strong, grounding him in reality, pulling him away from whatever caused him so much fear.

_Strangers are no longer strangers when the bond is their fear settled upon common ground, _Catherine mused to herself, rather apprehensive of taking care of someone she had just met. _He did the same for me with no hesitation, so it's time I returned the favor. _

"Catherine," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Where am I?"

"You're safe," she replied, for that was all that he needed to know. "You're safe with me. Okay?"

"Okay," Vincent drew a shaky breath, slowly returning back to himself. "My feet are bleeding, I think. It hurts." He looked rather numb, truth be told, but she wasn't going to say anything. She nodded.

"Why don't you sit on the bed and I'll clean this up, okay?" He nodded and sank backward to sit on his rumpled comforter, picking his feet up as she swept the glass off of the floor with a broom from the bathroom. After she had cleaned the glass and righting the displaced nightstand, she returned with a first-aid kit she found from digging around the kitchen.

"I'm going to pull a shard of glass from your heel, okay? It's the only one left," Catherine commented gently, pulling out a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit. He didn't make a noise as she extracted it from his flesh, merely dug his fingers into the mattress and squeezed his eyes shut. The lacerations to both of his feet weren't as deep as she thought they were but she couldn't be sure until she had cleaned all of the blood off. Much like how he had cleaned the blood from her face earlier that evening she got them as clean as she could whilst he stared off into space with dead, expressionless eyes.

It wasn't until she had gotten them clean did she see the dark, bruise-like scars crisscrossing his soles in half an inch thick strips. She remembered reading reports in her Psych class from soldiers returning from war. The ones who could write down what had really happened detailed a new torture technique being employed in Iraq on captured US soldiers. Beating the bare feet of soldiers with garden hoses or tire irons broke bones and shattered sensitive nerve endings whilst needing minimal cleanup or preparation.

"You're a soldier," she whispered. He didn't answer but merely waited for her to wrap the gauze around his wounds. She did so with an untalented, unlearned hand. It pained her ribs a little to be crouching in such a position but she told her ribs to shut up. Vincent needed everything she had right now.

She finished wrapping his feet and gestured for him to lie back in his bed. He did so with child-like obedience, not even bothering to cover himself. Catherine pulled the comforters around him and tucked him in tight before grabbing her blanket from the couch in front of the fire. She turned off the light before settling into a cushioned rocking chair in the corner of his room, her eyes ever fixed upon his shaky form.

"Catherine?" Vincent asked in a small voice.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for saving me." It was a ghostly repeat of her earlier statement to him.

"I guess that from now on, we're going have to save each other."

Catherine watched his body relax into his mattress. The sleep he now drifted off into was a peaceful, dreamless slumber. He almost felt safe under her gaze. She curled up as comfortably as she could with cracked ribs on the rocking chair and joined her new friend in dream land.

**Thanks for all the support! Next chapter should be up tomorrow, because I've got a break and no homework to hinder my progress. **


	4. Break

**AN: Thanks for all the support I've been getting! I really appreciate the kind words and encouragements form y'all. That last chapter was pretty confusing, I will admit that openly, but everything will be answered in this one. Enjoy my lovelies!**

_break: (verb) to smash, split, or divide into parts violently; reduce to pieces or fragments_

Catherine woke just as the sunrise was sneaking its cheerful presence through the divide in the tattered curtains. Vincent was still slumbering peacefully, nestled under the down comforter she had tucked around his quaking form the night before. Her entire body groaned in distaste as she stretched her aching limbs, uncurling from her perch on the rocking chair. The sight of the dried bloodstains on the floor brought back last night's events in quick succession.

_Mom's dead_, she thought quietly, her heart giving a painful tug. She refused herself a moment of weakness, though, as she rose to pad into the kitchen for some breakfast. The kitchen itself occupied half of the main room, the other half being the living room with a fireplace to curl up in front of. Vincent's appliances were archaic at best, without a microwave or dishwasher or any of that stainless steel nonsense. She rummaged around the dusty cupboards for a kettle and coffee grounds.

As the water set to boil, Catherine whirled around to see a limping Vincent emerge from his room, rather disheveled. His bandages were gone, much to her irritation.

"Vincent, for Christ's sake, you're going to bleed all over the floor," she exclaimed, rushing forward, trying to push him towards the couch. He took her hands with his gently.

"Catherine, my feet are fine. One of the perks of being a freak of nature includes fast healing," he reassured her, touched by her concern. "I'm just a little sore, that's all," he looked past her to see the kettle on the stove. "You're not going to go all 'housewife' on me, are you?"

She glared at him. "What, so I can soothe your damaged manly ego by submitting to your chauvinist fantasies? I'm making coffee for _both_ of us, you yuttz." He laughed good-naturedly.

"Here, I'll make some eggs while you toast some bread. You want scrambled or over- easy?" Vincent asked as he pulled some food from the fridge.

"Scrambled, please. You put your bread in the fridge?" Catherine asked teasingly, grabbing the cold loaf and dropped some slices into the toaster.

"Hey now," he defended, "It keeps the bread fresh for longer. The moisture doesn't get a chance to mess with the yeast to make mold cultures." He cracked a couple of eggs into the fry pan as they teased back and forth. The banter was a refreshing break from the constant darkness that had plagued them the night before.

"What next, Martha Stewart, you put the coffee grounds in the freezer to keep them fresh?"

"Actually no," Vincent pulled a bag from the freezer, "I freeze the whole beans. Makes the flavor a little stronger than just freezing the grounds." She laughed along with him, her smile brighter and more beautiful to him than the sunrise which was exploding into fruition outside the cabin walls. It seemed an alien concept to be reminded that they had only known each other for a little over twelve hours. They fit together so well.

They ate breakfast together on the coffee table in front of the couch. Catherine asked pointless, trivial questions about what kind of books he read or movies he cried at.

"I am a manly man, Miss Chandler, I don't cry at movies," Vincent boasted, his mouth half-full of scrambled eggs. The smile slid right off of her face.

"What the hell did you just call me?" Her plate was abandoned as she stood to tower over him.

"Catherine, I don't know what you mean-" Vincent began, but he was cut off by her.

"I _never _told you my last name. Don't you _dare_ try to think of a fucking lie, Vincent, I know that look. How do you know who I am?" Vincent was floored, trying to sputter out an explanation that didn't sound like utter horse shit before settling for the truth.

"Your mother worked for the men who shot her, okay?"

Catherine's eyes flashed momentarily. "No, Vincent, not okay, not even close to _fucking _okay. Why didn't you mention this last night?"

Vincent stood toe to toe with her. "When would that have been appropriate, Catherine? When I was taping your wrist or when I was having a psychotic break?" She shrank back, suddenly remembering the blank, terrified glean in Vincent's eyes in the middle of the night.

"Did my mom have anything to do with-"

"No, it's just old shit from my past that got stirred up, not her," Vincent sank back onto the couch and put his face in his hands. She joined him, touching her knee with his so she didn't startle him. "I saved her once," he said quietly after a moment.

"What?"

"That's how I got this," he pointed to the jagged scar on the side of his face, "I actually managed to save her once. Didn't do so hot the second time around," he chuckled humorlessly.

Realization dawned on Catherine. "You were there to protect my mom, weren't you?" He nodded.

"Helluva job I did, right?"

"Hey," she said, cupping the scarred side of Vincent's face to get his attention. "You saved me, didn't you? That counts for something."

"Doesn't bring her back, though," he sighed dejectedly, pulling away from her to gather his plates and placed them in the sink.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"You know, I don't think going down memory lane with your mother would be the best for either of us right now."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "I don't really need the details of your acquaintance with my mother. I'm all ears for you, though."

He stared out the window over the sink, refusing to look at her. Cowardice was not an ever-present attribute with Vincent, but what he was dealing with was an ever-present problem. His past was a cloak of dark memories looming over anything good like a black storm cloud, twisting and writing in the heavens of his mind.

"I-uh," words wouldn't come as he gripped his sink so hard the porcelain was cracking under his fingertips. Catherine came over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," she soothed, "it's okay. I won't push. We have forever to talk about this, okay? We'll wait until you're ready to talk." He nodded, relieved he wouldn't have to reopen his wounds just yet.

Catherine cleared her throat, visibly uncomfortable. "Vincent, I, um, I don't really know about this. I mean, I would love to stay, but if I'm getting in your way-" she was cut off by Vincent's arms wrapping around her small frame. It took her a second to gather that this was his version of a hug.

"Please stay. I know we haven't known each other that long, but…" he trailed off. He left what he could to be unspoken, both because he himself couldn't get the words out and that she knew what he was going to say already: They needed each other.

She patted his back awkwardly, returning the hug without using her broken wrist. He stepped back, face bright red, making it apparent that he wasn't used to opening up to people. "Sorry," Vincent apologized, "You were saying?"

It took Catherine a moment to remember what she was trying to get out. "I was going to say that, if I am indeed going to be staying her for an extended period of time, I should probably go and get some… girl stuff."

"Girl stuff?" He repeated, obviously bemused.

"Well, you know, clothing, an extra toothbrush, my _prescriptions_, and certain, ahem, _feminine accessories_," she sputtered out, cheeks flaming.

"Catherine, I'm a doctor not twelve. You can say pads and tampons, I'm totally okay with it. I need to grab some more Ace bandages anyway. You could come along with me to the Walgreens a mile south from here," Vincent handled her embarrassment smoothly.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

When they returned from the Walgreens three hours later, (Vincent didn't have a car, so they walked), they were sweaty and muddy from the perpetual daily thawing of the soil. Catherine had snuck off to refill her birth control prescription whilst Vincent grabbed extra toiletries for her. Target-brand clothes were all that was available, but Catherine was happy for something clean to wear. She paid with her prepaid cash card her mother had given her for textbooks, trying not to dwell on the fact that she was pretty much throwing her life away.

Catherine took a five minute shower in his cabin, needing extra time to remove and replace the wraps on her wrist and ribs. It was nice to be clean and fruit-scented again. She came out fresh and scrubbed clean with a perky smile on her face, much to Vincent's chagrin.

"I've never seen anyone so happy to take a shower before," he joked as he got in for his shower.

"I've never been so happy to take one," she called after him. Though it wasn't possible for her to be truly happy, not after what had happened to her mother, she had to keep a strong face on for Vincent. What she didn't know was Vincent was struggling to do the same for her, but he was beginning to break under the strain of his past.

The truth was, the darkness loomed over them both. The losses that they had taken recently occupied any empty space, so anytime they were left idle, their memories came crashing back like the storm surges from a hurricane. They couldn't stay still, lest the things they were hiding from catch up to them to swallow them whole and drive them to madness.

But they had each other, and for now, that was all they needed.

**Just so y'all know, Alex doesn't exist in this story. No ex to come running in and sweep Vincent away. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome. **


	5. Strong

**AN: So as you can tell, I've been mixing some angst and fluff together, but this chapter is pretty much going to be light-hearted teasing and banter between two new best friends. Just so y'all know, I've been doing martial arts for a while now, so if there's anything in the story you want me to explain, I'd be happy to do so. **

strong_: of great moral power, firmness, or courage_

The next couple of days went on without incident. Catherine was healing nicely, Vincent had not yet had another episode during the middle of the night, and they were becoming quite the pair. They gathered firewood together, cooked together, and even played board games if they were so inclined. After the recent trauma, Vincent and Catherine made a point to talk out what was bothering them or causing them any emotional pain. It was nice for the both of them to have someone to whom they could completely confide in without fear of judgment.

During Catherine's fourth day of living with Vincent, she had finally worked up the courage to ask him something she had been waiting to ask him for a while now. "Hey, Vincent?"

Vincent was scrubbing the egg residue from that morning's breakfast pan. "Yes, ma'am."

"I was wondering if you would be willing to teach me how to fight?" He snorted.

"What makes you think that I'm any good at fighting?"

"Well," Catherine adopted a sultry tone, "It might be because of your big biceps," she slapped his arm for effect, "or because you're a former soldier. I know they must've taught you hand to hand combat in training."

Vincent rinsed the pan off. "Are you sure you don't want to wait until your ribs and wrist are fully healed? I don't want you collapsing halfway through a session because your lungs can't sustain exercise properly."

Catherine waved her hand dismissively. "I think sawing dead tree limbs takes as much effort." While her mending bones still pained her, she was becoming much stronger just maintaining his house and preparing it for winter.

He turned to look her up and down, "Get a sweatshirt and a pair of those sweatpants you got from Walgreens." She nodded eagerly and zipped off to change.

Five minutes later, they were standing outside of his cabin, the fall chill growing ever more intense with each passing day. Vincent started off by teaching her stretches necessary for each of the moves he had planned for the day, making sure she didn't bend her broken wrist.

"All right," he said after a couple of strenuous stretches and held up his left hand. "Punch my hand as hard as you can." She did, landing her punch with a light smack. He didn't show any pain.

"What was that for?" Catherine asked.

"Baseline. Basically I needed to know how much you know about fighting, and that's obviously very little."

"Hey!"

He smiled good-naturedly. "It's not a bad thing. You just have no experience. You bent your wrist, threw out your elbow, and punched too hard with a closed fist. In any real fight, you could've broken your hand by dispersing the force you had behind your elbow incorrectly. You used your shoulder to do all the work, but what you really need to do is use your core to twist and transfer the energy you have through your arm and onto your opponent." He demonstrated by twisting his torso to help him throw his arm, elbow in, and completed the punch.

"Now try again," he held up his hand. She did exactly what he had done, using her newfound strength to get a louder smack from her punch. "Ow, Jesus," Vincent seethed, shaking his hand. "Are you hustling me?"

Catherine laughed. "I was on my school's varsity dance team for three years. I only need to be shown a move once."

"You know, I think fighting and dancing are a little different."

She raised an eyebrow. "You want me to punch your hand again?"

He shook his head. "Let's move on to blocks. You can block kicks, punches, elbow throws, body slams, hell, even block blunt weapons. You just have to remember to catch and release."

"Catch and release?" She repeated skeptically. "What are we, fishing?" He shot her his best bitchface.

"Catch the offensive move and release their offensive energy by using it against them. That's not really something someone like me needs to worry about," he gestured to his gigantic 6'2 frame, "But someone as tiny as you needs to be able to use their opponent's force against them."

Over the next hour, she was taught how to block just about any attack her threw at her, dodging blows and catching fists without bending her left wrist. Vincent had to admit it: she was _good. _Catherine was on the defensive the whole time, but she made what she did look effortless, whereas Vincent was getting winded. He threw one last kick at her which she caught between her right forearm and bicep, and used his off-balance to push him onto his back.

She stood over him, blocking the sunlight, hands on her hips as a smug smirk grew on her sweaty face. "Next time you're going to show me some offensive moves, right?"

Vincent nodded and took the hand she offered to help him stand. "Most of the show-offy stuff in those kung-fu movies I can't manage. I'm a little too big to be flipping off walls, but I can teach you some basic kicks and punches."

Once they got inside, Catherine poured a couple of cups of coffee so they could let their muscles relax. They sat in silence as their bodies cooled down and the soreness set in. Catherine's ribs had been protesting the entire fighting session but she had ignored them out of necessity: Learning how to fight was something she _needed_ to do. There was no telling if those men would return to finish her off.

"Vincent?"

"Yeah."

"I think I should mail a post card to my sister. Just let her know that I'm safe but in hiding somewhere she can't go." Vincent nodded.

"Of course. You won't put down a return address or anything, but I think it'd be good so no one would come looking for you. We could head into town tomorrow, there's a mail box by the grocery store where we could drop it off at."

Catherine grasped Vincent's hand. "Thanks for understanding."

He squeezed her fingers reassuringly. "Right back at ya."

And so it went. Catherine successfully mailed her postcard the next day without a hitch and they settled into each other's company. Their training sessions became increasingly shorter as the days grew colder, so they put off training for a while to build a shed next to the cabin. It wouldn't be heated, but it would allow them to train without destroying Vincent's furniture or dying of frostbite.

The trees were pretty much naked now: their summer blanket of leaves were shed almost a month before. In the moonlight the spindly branches of the deciduous trees cast an ominous, web-like shadow over the cabin. The fire was going almost all day in the cabin just to keep the room temperature bearable, and frost was beginning to cling tightly to the needles of the coniferous trees for longer periods of time.

The construction was tedious: Catherine was still healing and could only use one hand to brace boards with so Vincent was left to do most of the heavy lifting whilst she fetched tea and coffee to keep them warm as they worked. The fact that he was using a set of doghouse blueprints meant that they went through quite a lot of trial and error trying to scale the boards so the shed would be big enough for them to spar in.

"Ow, stupid _fucking _winter. Why don't we live in a place somewhere warm all year round so we didn't have to build this pile of shit," Vincent growled, after accidentally hitting his thumb with a hammer.

"We could always move to Cancun," Catherine joked, rather bemused with his frustration.

Vincent laughed. "Yeah, we could sip margaritas out of coconuts and brush our private beach free of seaweed."

"You could open up a clinic and I could start a law firm," she mused.

"Name our children Tess and JT," he stopped suddenly, his face flaming at what he had just proposed. _Have children together_? Catherine thought to herself. _Nah, too soon. _

The attraction they had for each other was something they danced around, flirting tirelessly through the days and nights they spent with each other. But it would be quite awhile before either of them would act on their pubescent impulses.

'**Nother chapter down, and another coming right up! Let me know if y'all have suggestions on where the fic could go. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome. **


	6. Helpless

**AN: So far along in this story, Vincent and Catherine have been living together for about two weeks, just dinking around. Vincent's been teaching Catherine how to defend herself while she's still healing up, but the weather has forced them to build a shed in which they can spar during the winter time. They've slowly started to trust each other, and I know this chapter they'll start testing the limits of their bond. **

**PS: I will confirm that both Catherine and Vincent have one form or another of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is a serious psychological condition. If you are triggered by violence or talks of suicide, you do not have to continue reading this. It wouldn't offend me one bit, I just hope that you are going to be okay and stay that way. **

_helpless: deprived of strength or power; powerless; incapacitated_

On the surface, Vincent and Catherine were happy. Whenever the other was around, it was all smiles and giggles, but whenever either was left to their own devices, their memories came to smother them. For Vincent, his scars carried more than the weight of war, as he could practically still hear his own screams ringing in his ears. Torture in the movies and torture in real life were two very different things.

For Catherine, it was the sole memory of her mother's blood splattering on the car behind her, the bullets viciously ripping through her flesh yet mercifully missing Catherine. Some nights, from her place on the couch, she awoke to her hand clapped over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. Neither of them knew the other's misery. Neither knew that their efforts to keep the other at a distance were unwarranted.

Sleeping was the worst. Eight hours of simply staring up at the ceiling or fruitlessly tossing and turning trying to get comfortable enough. When they finally did fall asleep, their dreams were not unlike the dreary and rather ghastly works of Edgar Allen Poe: dark, confusing, and terrifying. While Catherine's dreams were different twisted versions of the same event, Vincent's nightmares were becoming increasingly more about Catherine.

The night before, instead of his actual captors in Afghanistan, it was Catherine who had wielded his undoing. It was the same old dusty cell in the same old dusty compound nestled in the Hindu Kush Mountains, but instead of a grimy insurgent's face sneering at him as he was torn apart, it was her beautiful smile there to rip the screams from him. He awoke with his sheets soaked with sweat and spent the rest of the next day rather skiddish around Catherine, even though it wasn't her fault.

This night, however, his nightmare was much worse. He was helpless to do anything but watch as Catherine was shot by the Muirfield men the night her mother had been killed.

"_No!" The Beast roared, surging forward to feel the men's flesh give beneath his furious claws. But he was much too late to save her, too late to keep the bullets from piercing her lungs. Her breathing was shallow, wet and sticky as blood poured from her chest. _

_ "Catherine! Catherine, please," Vincent cried as he ran towards her. Even behind the veil of agony encompassing her, she still shrunk away from him in terror. Her small gasps whistled in her throat past gobs of blood. Tears of pain from Catherine mirrored Vincent's own tears. _

_ "P-please just kill me," she pleaded. "Please just do it." Vincent didn't have the heart to tell her that he would never hurt her, even though not ending the agony was worse than killing her. She died alone and terrified, with Vincent unable to do a thing. _

_ "Vincent," a hauntingly beautiful omniscient voice sang, cutting through the dense of sadness. Vincent didn't answer, still staring silently in shock at the mangled, bloody corpse. _

_ "VINCENT," the voice shouted, demanding for attention. _

"Hey, Vincent," the voice became clearer as he regained consciousness. Someone had been shaking him rather violently, strong enough to pull him from the hell he had been in. Sweat dripped off of his face while he gasped for air like a fish out of water. Catherine's worried expression came into focus.

"Vincent, are you okay-" she was cut off by Vincent's arms wrapping around her, hugging her tightly to his chest, his attuned hearing catching the healthy beats of her heart. His hands shook much like they did her first night here, the comfort of her presence bringing him some semblance of stability. She hugged him back this time, clutching at his powerful shoulders to hold him tight, so tight that she could feel his heart thundering frantically through the damp cotton of his t-shirt.

"I'm here," Catherine told him with the sort of finality that inferred she was there to stay. He squeezed his eyes shut and _felt _her in his arms, her warm aura seeping comfort into his battered soul. The desperation, the helplessness that had consumed him during his nightmare was still there, choking him. He couldn't hold her as her dream-self died, as her life force seeped into the ground beneath her.

He released her, his hands caressing her arms gently as she pulled back. Catherine hadn't quite grasped how shaken he was until she saw the terror in his eyes, glazing them like a ghost of a memory.

"Can I sleep in here tonight?" She asked softly, knowing that he couldn't have mustered the courage to ask her himself: a gentleman if there ever was one. He nodded without hesitation before she clambered over to settle in next to him, being mindful of her still-healing wrist and ribs. She snuggled into his body, her head resting on his chest, her broken hand splayed out on his stomach.

"I can't keep pretending that I'm okay, Catherine. I'm no measure of 'okay'," Vincent began, tears trickling silently down his chest. Catherine reached out her hand to intertwine her fingers with his, showing it was okay for him to continue. "I was a doctor before I shipped out. I was good at what I did, believe me, but then my brothers…my brothers were killed when the Towers went down. I signed up, all gung ho to kill whatever motherfucker could possibly have been connected. I got captured during my first month in Afghanistan.

"I was torn apart and put back together like one of those cadavers we worked on in med school. I was starved, my feet were beaten all to hell, and drugged with all these fucking hallucinogens. I got rescued by Muirfield. They asked me if I could do a favor for them, if I'd participate in 'something groundbreaking in the field of medicine', and I'd be able to walk again. It sounded almost good to be true.

"I got a shot in my jugular and _wham_. Flood of endorphins, dopamine, you name it. I was higher than a kite and drunker than a sailor at the same time. The metatarsals, you know, the bones in my feet, healed almost immediately. I felt like Superman." Vincent paused to breathe himself through the temptation to completely break down.

"But, Catherine, I cannot pretend to be a hero. The things I have done in retribution for what has been done to me are anything but heroic. I am _weak_. I am fallible. Had you not come here, had you not taken care of me that first night instead of running, I don't think I would still be lying here. Sometimes this _thing_ inside of me is howling so loud I can scarcely think, and I think that for the first time in a long time, I am afraid." He finished his self-realizing soliloquy as the darkness threatened to pick him up and swallow him whole. He couldn't look at her for fear of how she would see him. They lay in silence for a little while, the only sound being the ice crackling and forming on the boughs of the trees surrounding their little haven .

"You're not, you know," Catherine said after a little while.

"Not what?"

"Weak. Being afraid of something and giving in, now _that's _weak. Yet you carry on and weather through the pain with the kind of strength heroes _are_ made of. Simply living is enough, especially after what you've been through. I am not, in any semblance of the word, okay either. Sometimes I'm afraid those men will rise from their graves to finish me off while you're lying in the next room. Sometimes I miss my mom so much it chokes me. I can't even cry out for you because you have your own demons to run from.

"Vincent, I want you to look at me," she propped herself up so she could face him. "We are not weak because our scars run deeper than most. We are strong _because _of our pain. We are strong together, you and I." She took his hand and gripped it tight. "I've never felt so strongly about anyone in this world, Vincent. I'm not afraid when I'm with you."

"But you saw what I _am_."

Catherine shook her head vehemently. "I see _who_ you are. This existential crisis you've been experiencing is unnecessary: You are a good man." She placed a chaste kiss on the apex of his scar. "And I'll be damned if anyone ever tries to tell me otherwise." She settled back into his arms as tears began to well up in her soft, kind eyes.

"I'm broken, Catherine," Vincent whispered through gritted teeth, the emotional pain almost as strong as a physical one.

"As am I," she replied, without turning to look at him. "But together we are whole."

"Together," he murmured in agreement, his fingers tightening to hold her more securely.

They fell asleep with their tears drying on their cheeks, some of the weight they had been carrying on their shoulders had been shed. Though they were not fixed by any stretch, their admissions had allowed their wounded spirits to begin to heal. The road to recovery would be long and tedious, but they would be able to tread it together.

**I'm sick and tired of the writers of this show having Catherine and Vincent talk to each other like they're teenagers: Catherine's an Ivy League graduate, for pete's sake! I believe both are very intelligent, so if y'all were getting annoyed by their mini-manifestoes, I apologize. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome!**


	7. Restraint

**AN: OMG I LOVE YOU GUYS. All this positive feedback (and one not so positive one) is really helping me along. Now that Vincent and Catherine have had their little breakdown, and thus started on their road to recovery, I have decided to pull a WWBD (What Would Buffy Do). In this chapter, you'll get to see what they are really made of. And no, Vincent did not have all the materials lying around for a shed: he went out and bought them. **

**PS: SWEET MOTHERFUCKING JESUS THAT KISS WAS WORTH THE WAIT**

_restrain: to hold back from action; keep in check or under control; repress_

Catherine and Vincent continued on for the next two weeks: woke up, worked on the new sparring shed, and went to bed together. Catherine's wrist and ribs were now completely healed so the shed construction progressed exponentially faster with all of her body involved. Vincent installed the insulation (the shed would not have central heat) whilst Catherine nailed the shingles into place. It wasn't necessarily something that would be proudly printed on the cover of _Homes and Gardens_, but it was good enough for them.

Their little doghouse-turned –sparring-shed was finished two weeks into December, just as snow began to fall from the burgeoning clouds. The cold had slowed their last little bit of progress but it had not deterred them one bit. The finished product was about the size of the standard boxing ring, fully equipped with hand wraps, boxing gloves, punch mitts, floor mats, and one tan punching bag.

The morning after they had finished the shed, Vincent sauntered into the cabin brandishing a couple of sharpies.

"Are you going to get me drunk so you can draw permanent-marker moustaches on me?" Catherine teased.

Vincent laughed. "I'm a little hurt that you would think so low of me, m'lady. Get on your workout clothes so we can get to work." Curious to find out what he had in store, Catherine threw on her sweats and made a beeline for the training shed. He had been stretching while he waited and hung the punching bag from the hook on the ceiling.

"What are the markers for?"

"Fear," he deadpanned with all sincerity. "I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being kept awake at night." He held up two of the sharpies. "So I'm going to beat the shit out of whatever I'm afraid of."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"Well _we_," he took her hand and led her to the punching bag, "are going to write whatever goes bump in the night on the punching bag."

"Literally facing our fears," she conceded and took on his proffered markers. Catherine and Vincent worked in silence for the next fifteen minutes, writing down the things that kept them up late at night. Most of the things they wrote down were completely different from the other's. Catherine's handwriting was gracefully lilted from tons of practice, whilst Vincent's was so jagged it was nearly illegible.

"You sure have the handwriting of a doctor," Catherine sniggered once they were finished. The bag was completely covered, save the base. Fear was crisscrossed in random striations in multiple forms: _Muirfield, _Vincent had written, whereas Catherine simply wrote _hitmen_. One thing that stuck out was smack dab in the middle, where they had each written next to each other without realizing it. **Losing Catherine**, the right side read, while the left side said: _Losing Vincent._ It seemed that their greatest fears were one and the same.

"Well," Vincent said suddenly, brushing his hands free of clamminess as he grabbed a set of gloves and punching mitts, "let's get to work." Catherine was all too eager to let loose after their training hiatus. With everything healed up, she was certainly a sight to be seen, improvising new kicks and styles of punching so fast Vincent had trouble keeping up. While she was nowhere near as strong as Vincent, her dance background and small frame allowed her to move faster than he could.

He took a break from letting his hands serve as human punching bags (albeit protected by padding) and watched her wail on the _actual _punching bag for a bit. What he missed was the fact the she aimed for Muirfield and the Muirfield-related things inscribed on the bag. _Motherfuckers took my mom from me_, she thought angrily as she punched and kicked the shit out of the bag.

"Cat, you wanna spar?" Vincent interrupted, itching for a little spot of violence. Catherine nodded and helped him unfold the mats onto the solidly packed earth so they could grapple without worrying about injury, the punching bag unhooked and rolled into the corner. They didn't wear gloves or wraps so their blows wouldn't be at full force as they began to circle each other, analyzing the other's weaknesses before Vincent lunged.

Catherine's blocking skills were a lot sharper than her punches, so she stayed on the defensive most of the time, ducking under his kicks and pushing his hook punches away with two-hand blocks. Neither aimed to hurt the other, subconsciously protective whilst attacking at the same time. They danced around each other without throwing anything until Catherine spun to land a kick on his shoulder, (which was about as high as the top of her head). Vincent toppled over like a dead log so the mats had to catch most of his fall.

"Vincent!" Catherine shrieked apologetically. She knelt next to him to make sure that he was okay, which he totally was.

"I'm fine," he grinned, proud of the strong woman he helped her become. "Though I can't say the same for my shoulder, and I'm having trouble telling who's more badass between the two of us." He sat up to look her in the eye. "I noticed you didn't write 'the Beast' down as one of your fears."

She shrugged. "I know you'd never hurt me."

"But I tore those men apart."

Catherine shook her head. "If they had tried what they had done now, I wouldn't have killed them so damn quick. I'd make those motherfuckers suffer."

"Just because you don't have superpowers doesn't make you any less scary, Cat. If they could see you now," he slugged her shoulder playfully, "they'd shit themselves." Catherine laughed, but Vincent insisted her wasn't patronizing her.

"I _know_ that I'll never let them make me a victim again, that's for sure," she hissed, her jaw clenched.

"When we're ready, I'll help you take them down. We'll take the fight to them: they won't see us coming."

"Muirfield will never harm another living soul ever again."

"We'll take them down together."

"Together," she conceded, and surprised him by grabbing the scruff of his neck and bringing her lips to his. Electricity seemed to crackle and sizzle in what little space was left between them. Their mouths fit perfectly together, almost as if their constant fantasizing of this moment had prepared them better than any instructional video on the subject. Their lips, their tongues, and their hands roamed free as she pushed Vincent back onto the mat so she could straddle him.

When they came up for air, Vincent breathed in amazement. "Hot _damn_, Catherine, you're going to be the death of me." She smiled against his mouth as they continued to half-wrestle, half-make out on the mats. The tension between them had to give some time so apparently their time was now. The Beast, hidden deep within Vincent, burrowed under a network of morals and a burdened conscience, gave him a certain animalistic rush of adrenaline. He growled, fucking _growled,_ and pinned her beneath him on the mat.

She took a pause from kissing him to wrap her legs around his waist and flip him over, feeling his taut muscles flex underneath her thighs. "All this time we've been talking and we could have been doing _this_," she said, breathless. Though the talking had been totally necessary, tons of new opportunities were open to them now.

They carried on for another couple of minutes before Vincent pulled back. "Catherine, I-I can't. We're moving too fast."

Catherine smiled reassuringly at him. "Sorry, I got a little caught up in the moment. But we are _hot_ together, aren't we?" Vincent laughed.

"And fearsome," he added, with only a little humility. It was going to take a lot of self-control for them to be able to keep their hands off of each other because they _were_ hot for each other.

In a bad way.."

**I've been watching a lot of True Blood lately, so I wanted to write something really hot. Sorry it took me so long. We've been getting a lot of snow here in Nebraska, so just keeping my house warm has been a big enough hassle. Oh well. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.**


	8. Health

**AN: Sorry I've been updating with less frequency as I had been. I lost my momentum, but don't worry. I will finish this fic if it kills me. And my nonexistent social life. **

_health: soundness of body or mind; freedom from disease or ailment_

"I hate you," Catherine huffed through a sore throat and clogged sinuses. This cold she had been nursing for the last week and a half was absolutely relentless and it grew worse by the day. The clouds hung ominously in the sky above the woods as wind began to weave itself to whistle and howl through the trees like a rabid dog. Vincent had stuffed rags in the cracks of the windows to keep a pittance of the cold out, but it hadn't stopped them from using the fireplace at all hours.

"I'm sorry that you can't accept the fact that I refuse to show you mercy, even in your weakened state," Vincent replied smugly, reclining back in his chair. He had just beaten her in a game of Scrabble by using a word she just found out was real.

"Really, Vincent? 'Quasar'? How the hell does anyone know about outdated astronomical terminology?"

"You're the one who turned my 'symptom' into 'asymptote'." Catherine coughed pointedly into her elbow before she could make some witty rebuttal. Vincent eyed her worryingly and placed a hand on her forehead.

"Christ, Cat you're burning up and I don't need a stethoscope to hear how bad your breathing is getting. Why didn't you tell me you felt this bad?" He demanded, concern evident enough in his tone.

"I thought it was just a cold from being in that shed without heating. I mean, it's warmer than being outside, but it's not as warm as it is in here," she ground out as the tickling sensation in the back of her throat was becoming a perpetual nuisance.

Vincent shook his head. "You've got the initial symptoms commonly associated with pneumonia. I don't have any medicine here because I never get sick anyway, so I'll have to go out and buy some," he stood and donned his coat before Catherine grabbed his arm.

"Vincent, you and I both know that those clouds above us aren't any light snow clouds and the wind is already starting to pick up. I don't want to risk you getting caught in a blizzard because I've got a cough," she protested.

He cupped her face in his hands before placing a soft kiss on her chapped lips. "And I don't want to risk you choking on your own busted lungs, okay? Stay hydrated, stay warm, and for my sake, stay safe. I'll be back home soon." He kissed her again before heading out of the door, leaving an apprehensive Catherine alone in his wake.

She rushed to the window and watched him walk off into the trees until he was just a speck between the trees. The clouds above her looked darker than the heart of a murderer and the wind whistled past the cabin with an unmistakable ferocity. _I swear to God, if he gets himself killed, I'll bring him back and kill him myself for his stubbornness,_ she thought gravely to herself.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxx

Much to her displeasure, it had started to snow a half an hour after Vincent left. This snow wasn't something softly gliding through the air in pretty little snowflakes, though. This snow was the kind that could find a man, strip him bare, and leave him for the wolves to snack on. It limited visibility to a few feet ahead, the wind whipping up both what had fallen and what was still falling, igniting a maelstrom of white nothingness. The vast nothingness of the outside world was beginning to wear on Catherine's nerves.

Her cough was getting worse each passing hour and her fever was only growing. It would only be a matter of time before delirium would set in from such a high body temperature. At first, she tried to comply with Vincent's orders to stay hydrated, but she was beginning to have difficulty stopping coughing long enough to drink something. What was worse: she was sweating harder than a marathon runner during the summer in Texas, so she was losing fluid at an alarming rate.

As darkness fell (it didn't matter if the sun was up or not: she couldn't see anything anyhow), there was still no sign of Vincent. She lay shivering on the couch, cocooned by blankets in front of the fire as sweat continued to run off of her in rivulets. The last time she had ever been sick like this, she had chicken pox when she was nine with her mother to dote upon her and keep her well.

The windows rattled from the gale rioting on outside, and the perpetual howling was beginning to drive her mad. Six hours without Vincent felt like an eternity cooped up inside the cabin, coughing and wheezing so much she was starting to have trouble breathing. A pounding headache set in, placing pressure on her throbbing temples and her clogged sinuses. Strength began to ebb from her leaden limbs as she struggled to grab the mug of now-cold tea sitting on the coffee table.

The fire was diminishing in its brightness but she could scarcely muster the strength to drink, let alone get up to put more logs into the fireplace. She began to get up, but fell her legs go out from under her, causing her to fall to the floor and knock over the coffee table, spilling her only source of hydration. This set off another coughing spell as she clutched the rug beneath her in pain. Sparks lit up behind her eyes as she felt a copper, metallic taste seep into her mouth and airway. She had coughed so much her esophagus began to feel the wear.

Catherine army-crawled to the fireplace at a glacial pace, each movement excruciatingly feeble. She didn't even want to brush the hair that stuck to the sweat on her face away for fear of depleting her strength. The illness had escalated exponentially faster than she could have predicted it to, but it wasn't herself that she was afraid for.

Vincent was still out there and the vision of him cowering against a tree from the powerful winds choked her just as badly as this pneumonia was. So here she lay, covered in sweat, half tangled in blankets in front of a fireplace she could barely reach, finally realizing that she was in love with the man who saved her. Her heart's timing was impeccable.

_Goddamnit Catherine, you won't be able to tell him how you feel if you don't move those fucking logs_, she admonished herself, refusing to rest until she had heaved the lightest logs haphazardly into the dying fire. She realized that she couldn't make it back to the couch without fainting, so she merely rolled a couple of feet away to lay in front of the fire. Though the inside of her felt as if it were on fire, she was numb to her surroundings as the fire cast its glow upon her deathly pallor.

As blackness surrounded the edges of her vision, she cast a silent prayer to whomever was listening to bring Vincent home safely.

**Bahahahaha cliffhanger. Lol jk I'll post the next chapter right after this one. Reviews and just plain old criticisms are welcome. **don'


	9. Perseverance

**Catherine has pneumonia! Yeah I didn't know what else to say. Oh well. **

_perseverance: steady persistence in a course of action, a purpose, a state, etc., especially in spite of difficulties, obstacles, or discouragement._

Catherine awoke several times during the night to the sounds of coughs being wrenched from her raw esophagus. Her mouth was dry, her lips were chapped and cracked, and her body was beginning to feel the effects of both her illness and dehydration. If she didn't muster the strength soon to get herself some water, she could die. Thinking about how desperate she was and actually doing something to help were two different things. Her limbs ached and her head throbbed, any ounce of strength left was being put into her vital organs.

Each time she awoke, she could hear the wind, roaring and howling outside of the cabin, get progressively weaker. The snow still continued to fall, however, and the fire had completely died out by now. The only heat in the cabin was coming from her body as she shivered upon the rug in front of the darkened fireplace. Slowly but surely she was pulling herself over to the bathroom, which was only a couple of feet closer than the kitchen, but that small distance meant a great deal to her in her weakened state.

It took her a couple of periods of consciousness to pull herself up to the bathroom sink, in between which she had fainted from the effort of half-crawling and half-dragging herself whilst coughing up her lungs and a minute amount of blood. Water tasted better than the sweetest nectar as it trickled down her throat with cupped hands dripping it all over the floor. She drank as long as she could, the symphonic monotony of running water gave her a semblance of well-being.

She turned off the faucet and lay down on the floor, not able to make it back to the rug in the living room. She fell asleep, her thirst only slightly sated, her skin pressed to the icy tiles as the darkness swallowed her again.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Catherine awoke to Vincent's pale face peering anxiously above her. His entire body was covered in snow which wasn't beginning to melt in the non-heated cabin. The lines of the tiles were embedded up and down her goose-bumped arms from sleeping on the bathroom floor, which was plenty cold enough to begin with.

"Fucking Christ, Catherine, you're alive," he nearly cried as he picked her up and carried her over to the couch. She shivered when his snow-covered coat touched her bare skin, her fever still burning fiercely inside of her. He went out of view for a moment before her returned with a baggie from Walgreen's, presumably with the medicine she so desperately needed.

When he stuck her with a needle, she couldn't even feel it as it pierced her skin and provided with what would save her life. She went unconscious again soon after that.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

When she awoke again, the snow was still splatting against the windows and walls of the cabin. The fire crackled cheerily in the fireplace as the tiniest hint of sunlight peeked through the curtain of snow to cast its warmth upon the interior of the cabin. She still felt like shit, but her fever had gone down and some of her strength was returning. Vincent had draped possibly every single dry cloth in the cabin over her in an effort to keep her warm as he presumably slept alone in his room.

"Hey," his warm voice called from the kitchen behind her once he saw her head lift. He rushed to her side. "How are you feeling?" he asked, worry evident in his voice as he took her wrist to take her pulse.

"Pretty shitty," she croaked, her sick voice just about as rough as his normal one was. "How long have I been out?"

"About twelve hours, give or take. You've got a pretty moderate case of bacterial pneumonia. I've been giving you antibiotics while you were out."

"'Moderate'? If this is moderate, then what the hell constitutes severe?"

He kissed her forehead. "You wouldn't have had the strength to get yourself to the bathroom, which is where I found you. You slept on the floor without blankets for a couple of hours, so you were pretty much frozen when I got there. You scared the shit out of me."

"Right back at you, Doc," she smiled meekly before coughing into her elbow again. She groaned miserably. "How long until I'm back to myself?"

Vincent grinned. "Knew you were going to ask that. It'll take you a couple days for the symptoms to die down, but it'll take at least a week for you to totally recover. Antibiotics aren't an instant cure, unfortunately."

"Thank goodness you got here in time," she looked down at her hands. "I thought I wouldn't see you again for a little while there. I thought you would get frozen-midstride with a bag of medicine trying to trek your way back here through a blizzard." The thought of losing him was one of her biggest fears which was allegorically represented on the punching bag in the shed next to them.

He took her hand. "Honestly, Catherine? I thought I was going to be too late. I thought I was going to walk in and find your dead body on the couch. I am so happy that that didn't happen."

Catherine squeezed his fingers reassuringly. "The hell if I was going to die. I don't give a damn if I am riddled with bullets, there's no way I'm going to leave you."

"I could be blind and I would always find a way to get back to you, Catherine," he paused. "You know, we say some pretty cheesy shit to each other don't we?" She laughed, even in her sickly state as beautiful as always when a smile lit up her face. He kissed her, unafraid of catching her illness, just happy that she was warm and alive. Just happy that she had promised to never leave him alone to face the harshness of the world.

Neither was aware that the depth of love, yes _love_, was growing ever larger by the minute. Neither was consciously aware of the other's love but felt that their bond was much greater than that of an average boyfriend-girlfriend scenario. Their love was brave and strong. Their love was pure.

**There! Probably could've just made one big chapter instead of two short ones, but hey! I'm lazy. Reviews and criticism welcome. **


	10. Free

**AN: Just to reiterate: Catherine and Vincent are in love with each other, but have yet to admit to themselves, let alone to each other. This is set two weeks after Catherine's brush with pneumonia, and it's set around Christmas time. (Which is really freaking weird writing because it's February right now and all this fucked up shit is happening with the weather.) This is going to be a long-ass chapter. A big shoutout to y'all writing reviews! Love y'all just as much as I love Vincent and Catherine. 3 **

_free: a person or one's will, thought, choice, action, etc.; independent; unrestricted_

After Catherine's second bout of 'recovery time' in Vincent's cabin, she was getting pretty antsy. Due to the gigantic snow drifts piled up so graciously by the wind on the side of the shed, they weren't able to train at all. What she didn't mind was that, even after she had fully recovered, Vincent still doted upon her like she was a princess. They stole kisses at random points every day: whenever someone had won a game of scrabble or made a rather witty comeback during their banter, but they had both decided subconsciously to hold off on sex for a little while longer.

That wasn't to say that the tension and the heat wasn't there: it was, churning like a boiling pot of hormones and unrequited feelings. They both caught themselves fantasizing at the most inconvenient of times, especially when they usually weren't separated by much more than a couple of feet, and would have to snap out of it before the other noticed. Must of their 'unrequited sexual tension' was channeled into their playful, flirty banter.

"Vincent?" Catherine asked after coming out of the shower one morning, absent-mindedly running her fingers through her hair as he was making breakfast.

"Are you tawking ta me? _Are you tawking ta me?_" He replied in an exaggerated Brooklyn accent, facing away from her.

"_What?_" She asked, bewildered by his sudden outburst. This was unbelievably out of character from his usually brooding and pensive mystique.

He turned to face her with the biggest grin on his face, his half-apron splattered with grease from the bacon he was frying. "'Taxi Driver'? Don't tell me you've never seen 'Taxi Driver'," he demanded, the hand he was holding the spatula with resting on his hip.

She shook her head apologetically. "Sorry, babe. I'm the worst New Yorker ever. What brought this on anyway?"

Vincent shrugged and went back to his cooking. "I just woke up in a good mood today. I mean, it's easy to be happy when you've got a beautiful woman in your arms." He threw a suggestive wink over his shoulder. She had to admit: he was unbelievably sexy at all hours of the day, but a happy Vincent was the most adorable thing she had ever seen. A faint blush colored his scarred cheek and he hummed to himself as he worked.

Catherine came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, enjoying the view of his muscles flexing as he flipped the bacon and the pancakes. She kissed the back of his neck before resting her head on the back of his shoulder blade.

"'Luke, I am your father'?" She growled against his back in a mockery of a man with a distorted breathing apparatus.

"'Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back'. How about '_I'll never let go Jack, I promise'_?" He quoted in a hoarse falsetto.

"That's easy: 'Titanic'. Give me something hard."

"I can't remember which porno that would be from. _'_Give me something hard'? Sounds like a Ron Jeremy flick to me," he joked, his shit eating grin all over his face.

Catherine slugged his arm, giggling, "Not like that, you pervert. I meant give me a difficult quote." Vincent turned off the stove as he pondered his rebuttal.

"You like old comedies?"

"Hell yeah."

Vincent scrunched up his face, squinting his eyes and jutting out his jaw. "'_Destiny! Destiny! No escaping not for me! Destiny!_'"

She laughed, clapping her hands excitedly. "Gene Wilder in 'Young Frankenstein'!"

And so it went. Conversation flowed easily between them. It was always hard for Catherine to talk to boys her age, because most just wanted her for her looks. If Catherine ever showed even a margin of her true intelligence they ran for the hills. Not for Vincent: as a doctor and a soldier, he appreciated a woman that was more than just a pretty face. She was witty, beautiful, and tough as hell.

And for Catherine, the few boyfriends she had were always the 'bad boys' with faux leather jackets and 'give 'em hell' attitudes. Vincent, whilst being the ultimate bad boy, was kind and caring, not to mention an unbelievable dork when he wanted to be. While many women would be afraid of his scarred face, she thought it made him twice as hot as well as twice as vulnerable.

What was even more remarkable was that some of their psychological wounds were beginning to heal in each other's presence. Nightmares were slowly being replaced with calm, soothing dreams and sleep-filled nights as they slept snuggled underneath the covers. No longer did Vincent jump at shadows or Catherine cower from loud bangs because their fear was being overcome. The darkness, the void that had left a hole in their hearts when they had first met was now filled with light and hope.

With Christmas fast approaching, Vincent had insisted upon cutting down a small pine tree whilst Catherine walked to town to buy more food and decorations. Small, rather ratty stockings that looked suspiciously like an old man's socks hung over the fireplace while streamers and popcorn strings hung from the rafters. Vincent even went so far as to draw mini snowmen in the frost gathered on the windows. All attempts at building a snowman outside ended with a rather war-like snowball fight between the lovebirds.

Vincent had gotten rather suspicious after it had taken Catherine three hours to get back from town during her supply run, covered in sweat and panting heavily. "Where the hell have you been?" He demanded, rather concerned by her disheveled state.

She gave him an odd look. "Buying stuff in town. I sent another untraceable postcard to Heather wishing her a Merry Christmas and that I was still safe, too." She set the bags of food on the counter and groaned in pain. "Ow, my _back_," she hissed, rubbing at the soreness with a grimace.

"Do you want me to take a look at it?"

Catherine waved her hand dismissively. "No, I'm just sore from walking, that's all." She plopped down onto the couch next to him and spotted something new on the coffee table. "What _is _that thing?" It was some sort of electronic device with a grotesque array of wires jutting from its exposed circuitry, the hard plastic outer casing cut away with pliers.

Vincent grinned. "I turned a walkie-talkie into a full-on radio. So we can listen to music, see?" He picked it up and twisted the knob on the top. A rather mangled rendition of 'Santa Baby' cut through the static, obviously coming from a local station's playlist of heinously overplayed Christmas songs. Catherine laughed, the pure novelty of _making_ something instead of buying it was beginning to show its true value: The pain, the frustration, all the trials and errors could not be felt unless something was made by oneself, not by some faceless and nameless person from across the world.

"Did you learn how to do this in the army?" She asked, loving the way his eyes lit up from assessing her reaction.

He shook his head. "No, my big brother William showed me how to do it. Mikey Junior was the one who taught him." His eyes glazed over whenever he talked about his brothers: his loss was one Catherine doubted he would ever recover from. At least Heather knew Catherine was safe, because Catherine had written things that only her little sister would understand as cryptically as she could. Though Heather had no idea where her sister was, who she was with, or what she was running from, at least she had some semblance of closure.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

On Christmas morning, Vincent awoke to find several rather clumsily wrapped packages sitting underneath the tree he had cut down with his own two hands. Coffee had been brewed, pancakes had been cooked, and the fire was alive and well. Catherine finished setting the table just as a chink of sunshine broke through the trees to shine upon her. Her auburn hair shone dark red in the sun's gaze, her smile a thousand times brighter than the clearest diamond, and her cheeks were hued with just a tint of pink. Whatever she bought him for Christmas would pale in comparison to what he wanted.

But Vincent would continue to deny himself, to deprive himself of any opportunity to quench his desire to taste her, to have her in any fashion he wished. Boundaries set by any woman were something he always made sure to respect, a trait many of his male counterparts seem to be missing. Still, he _ached_ for her.

"H-hey, Merry Christmas," he stammered, his brain coughing and sputtering like some ancient Chevy. She hugged him, wrapping her small but strong arms around him as he bent to kiss her hair.

"Good morning," she murmured into his chest. Their silences were never awkward: half of their conversations didn't need words to be understood. She felt so warm and _safe_ around him, especially considering that he was a superhero who could rip anyone who even looked at her funny limb-from-limb. His massive frame was a presence not to be ignored but it did give her some semblance of calmness.

They broke apart to eat breakfast, Vincent practically purring over the surprise chocolate chips in the pancakes, and retired with full bellies to the couch. Catherine dragged over the biggest package to him, which was wrapped in what seemed to be the Sunday comic strips. He smiled, gleeful as the little boy from 'A Christmas Story' when he finally got his red rider BB gun.

It was a mini TV with a built-in VCR player, obviously used with dents and grime on the dials. "This is why it took me so long to get home from buying supplies," Catherine explained. "I figured we could watch movies together." She handed him another box, much lighter than the mini TV, which rattled with the tell-tale plastics clicking against tape reels.

Vincent opened his box and laughed. "You got all the Mel Brooks classics. 'Men in Tights', 'Spaceballs', and 'Young Frankenstein? I grew up watching these! Aw yes, Monty Python!" The sound of her giggles chiming in made him close his eyes as he tuned out everything else to hear the beat of her heart thrumming happily against her chest. His grip on the box tightened until she brought him out of it.

"Vincent, is something wrong?" The concern she had for him was undying, regardless of how dangerous his nature could turn out to be, she would never be afraid of him. She always had a shoulder to lean on, and she was always there for him. And he wanted to always be there for her as well.

"I love you," he managed to squeeze out of his terrified throat. Her heartbeat gave a little jump as she gasped as if in pain. He instantly regretted what he had said. _Goddamnit, Vincent! You should have just given her the fucking birdhouse and moved on. _Every doubt he ever held in regards to Catherine came crashing in to cave in the walls around his heart. He spared a glance to see her eyes welling up with tears.

He placed the box of cheesy videos on the coffee table in front of him. "I do, Catherine," he continued quietly, "I couldn't spend another second in this fucking cabin without saying it. Sometimes I love you so much I scare myself," his jaw clenched. "I'm afraid of what will happen to me if I lose you. Just the thought of it keeps me awake at night. You saved me. And I don't mean in that Jesusy-lovey-dovey bullshit kind of 'saved'. I wouldn't be sitting here if it weren't for you."

A tear trickled down Catherine's cheek, and Vincent took it to mean the worst. _She doesn't love me. She just feels sorry for me-_

"Don't you dare think like that, Vincent Keller," she snapped, her tearful expression still as fierce and strong as ever. "I can see what you're thinking, but you're wrong. I don't _pity_ you, mostly because I fucking hate it when people pity _me_." She took his face in her hands with her thumb resting on his scar. "I love you. And I'm not saying that just because you said it. I'm not saying that because you're letting me stay here. I'm not saying that because you're the only person I've had an in-depth conversation with since I saw my mom get shot in front of me.

"I'm saying 'I love you' because it's true. I've decided to stop denying myself the pleasure of saying those words because, goddamnit, I deserve it. I _deserve_ to love someone like you."

"What, like fucked up?"

"_No_. Someone brave, just, and pure. Someone I can trust with everything I have and I know they'd do the same for me. We're healing because we've saved each other, Vincent. So, yes, I love you. And I'm going to say it every day for the rest for my life. I'm not going anywhere." She kissed him with such force he gave a little grunt of surprise. Their mouths fought for dominance as they squeezed in gasps of air between their lips meeting and parting.

With their vows of love now requited, Vincent and Catherine were now free of their bonds to their fear. Whatever chains linking their personal demons to their weighted souls were broken and re-soldered to bind them together. Though these chains were not heavy as the darkness was, these new bonds were much stronger, much more infallible than even the most heavily wrought iron fresh from a blacksmith's oven.

Though today was not the day they would make love: now that they were assured that neither was going anywhere, all sense of urgency was lost. They had forever to explore each other, and forever began today.

**Whew! That was a long one. Btw, this story is going to be hella long. Everything I have planned for these two is downright cruel, but hey, at least I'm not killing either of them off. Which is a guarantee: no major character deaths in this story, promise. 3 Reviews are appreciated. **


	11. Desperate

**Y'all are still reading! Love you guys. All this positive feedback really means a lot to me. Anywhodeleedo: Cat and Vincent have come pretty far along in their relationship, their fight training, and their recovery. I promise that I will never break them up in this fic, or have either of them killed off, or any pregnancy during the middle of the action because those kind of fics piss me off. Scout's honor. **

**Just a reminder that this fic is rated M for certain reasons such as violence, profanity, nudity, sexual situations, and adult themes. If you are uncomfortable with any of these things then you don't have to continue reading. I'm totally cool with that. **

_desperate:_ _having an urgent need, desire_,_ which arises during certain situations of great peril, danger, etc._

It was only the middle of January, yet the snow slowly began to erode away in the warmth of the sun's perpetual gaze. Water dripped off of trees and turned what was left of the snow into a brown mush. It was still a mite too cold to go outside for any kind of cardio before their almost daily training sessions.

Catherine and Vincent didn't really speak much when they sparred: they communicated through their soft blows and their sharp blocks. Catherine was learning to do the showy stuff Vincent could never grasp, watching old Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan movies frame-by-frame on the mini-TV she had gotten for Vincent.

The punching bag they had written upon was beginning to show some wear, with some of the words slowly starting to fade. Their fears went with the punching bag, ever present yet defeated daily. After a rather long sparring session, they were content to lie on the mats and stare at the derelict ceiling, breathing hard and sweating buckets. They didn't need to touch to feel each other's presence as they lay in silence.

"Vincent?"

"Yeah."

"Why haven't you 'hulked out' since I've been here? I mean, I only saw a glimpse of you the first night."

Vincent propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. "Honestly? I have no idea how or when I'm going to 'hulk out', as you so eloquently put it, and I really don't want you to be around the next time it happens." Catherine snorted and rolled her eyes.

"_Please_," she scoffed, "don't shovel me that shit about needing protecting from _you_. Notice that your 'Beast' is not anywhere on that bag. Even that first night, I knew in my gut you would never hurt me."

"So if I turned into the Beast right now you wouldn't freak out?"

"Do you have that kind of control?"

"No, I'd probably make a constipated face for a couple of seconds, and I'm not in any imminent danger." She laughed at his response but sobered almost immediately at his sincere expression.

"What's wrong, Vincent?"

"Nothing, it's just," he drew circles on her bare shoulder as he struggled to find what he was trying to say, "I'm afraid that I won't be able to protect you."

"Oh for _fuck's _sake," Catherine swore as she pulled away from him to stand. "Vincent, you are brilliant, but sometimes I think you have the maximum brain capacity of a teenage boy. Do you think I'm just learning all of this so I can stall my attacker long enough for you to swoop in and save me? I already know how to stave, but I'm here to fight."

"You think I wouldn't?"

"What?"

"Save you."

"That's not the point, baby. I'm good at a lot of things, but fighting is something I'm _great _at."

Vincent stood up so fast she had scarcely blinked. "You've been trading blows with me, Catherine. I love you too much not to hold back when we spar, and that's not getting you ready for shit. Muirfield agents won't show you the same courtesy when they kick my door in. And it's going to happen sooner or later, we both know that. They just haven't found us yet."

She stood still, obstinate and strong as ever. "I've seen the best and worst of you. I've seen the devil wearing men's clothing. I'm not running. I will never run. I am _not_ going anywhere." If there was anything bad anyone had ever said about Catherine Chandler, it would be her keenness to be stubborn.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

A couple of days later, Catherine was out on another supply run. The walk through the woods from the cabin to town seemed to shorten every time she walked it. The silence and alone time gave her mind leave to wander off, twisting tangents of thought swirling and coalescing together like a snake's mating ritual. When she was younger, she couldn't stand being alone for more than ten minutes, but now she could go long stretches of time being in no one's company except her own.

After she had gotten everything she needed from the grocery store in the quaint little town out in the boondocks (she knew all of the clerks by now and greeted each one with a happy smile every supply run), Catherine decided to take a shortcut back to the woods instead of weaving her way through the tangled web of poorly constructed streets. She crossed the empty parking lot only to find her only route out to be through an alleyway, dimly lit by an adjacent streetlamp as it flickered demurely to give her some semblance of visibility in the cloud of darkness hovering over the little town. It had taken her a couple of seconds to realize that if she were to be ambushed, she would have only one way to run which could lead her would-be attackers to potentially find Vincent.

Sure enough, her instincts were spot on as four men in regular street garb surrounded her. Though they were not uniformed, Catherine could tell that these men had trained together, as their movements were practiced and plotted together. They wore no expressions, as if they too were on some simple supply run. She searched for a way out, but the only scenario in which she would get out of this was through a fight. She tightened her grip on the heavy plastic grocery bags.

"You sick fucks coming back to finish what you started?" They remained silent, impassive, ready to simply execute the Chandler girl and frame the Beast. Little did they know: Catherine wouldn't go down without a fight. As the first one lunged toward her, she swung the bag of milk and jars of jam to crash against his head. He collapsed soon after that.

A second agent threw a swift hook kick, one similar to a kick Vincent frequently used, which Catherine caught with ease and yanked his ankle viciously. She then kicked him in the chest before the other two grabbed her from behind. With her arms restrained, the only choice she had was to stamp on their feet with the heel of her boot, effectively shattering their metatarsals. They promptly released her so she could deal an elbow to one's face and to the other's windpipe.

In a matter of thirty seconds she had incapacitated four Muirfield agents, all of whom were extensively trained in combat but were felled by their lack of ingenuity and speed. As she gathered her groceries, one of them (the only conscious one) called out to her from his place in a muddy puddle on the ground.

He held his throat where she had elbowed him and growled out. "You may have won this time, little girl, but soon enough your head will be on a platter and your Beast will be locked in a cage where he belongs." She stalked over to him and bent to grab his hair to level her steely gaze with his.

"Tell your boss," she hissed into his face, "that the Beast isn't what he needs to be afraid of. It's the little girl." She kicked him in the head as she stood, knocking him unconscious. Catherine walked away from the scene, head held high, proud of herself for being as strong as she was. Still, there was something inside of her still shaking in terror from the prospect of being ambushed by a bunch of men who wanted her dead.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Catherine got about halfway home before she had to stop and rest: her shoulders ached and her hamstrings were the sorest they had ever been. She was already two hours later than she normally was but she couldn't walk any farther without her legs giving out. Exhaustion began to leech into her bones, fighting against the January cold for dominance. Tonight was beginning to feel rather similar to her first night in these woods.

She got the creeping sensation that she was being watched as she caught her breath. The skin on the back of her neck prickled and the hair on her arms rose.

"H-hello?" Catherine called hesitantly. "Anyone there?" She peered between the trees before letting out a yell of surprise as a pair of golden eyes peered back at her. The Beast flashed up to her in a blink of an eye, peering at her before slowly melting back into Vincent's handsome face.

Before she could say a word, his lips cut her off, effectively taking her breath from her. He gripped her tighter than a drunk would hold the last drink in the world, pressing her to him so she couldn't fly away. This kiss was desperate, as if he would never be able to kiss her again and he was trying to get all he could get. All of her aches and any notion of the cold bled from her limbs as she kissed him back. Her hands roamed his back, feeling the hardened muscles flex underneath her fingers.

Catherine spoke in between their lips, "Cabin…now." His eyes shone with their golden sheen again as he picked her up bridal style and whisked her home and the groceries were left abandoned by the tree stump. She had to admit, all this jostling and jumping at super speed in his arms wasn't doing very much for the mood.

He set her back on her feet as they stumbled into the cabin, the door slamming loudly behind Catherine as she tore her jacket and her shirt off of her slim but muscled torso. Vincent did the same until she practically slammed back into him, kissing him without abandon, like a madwoman staking a claim. They fell backwards onto the bed, with Catherine straddling him like a rider straddles a rodeo bull, gripping him tight with her thighs.

She kissed a line from his mouth, down the column of his neck, and over his chiseled torso. "I've dreamt of this," Vincent hissed through his teeth as she flattened her tongue to run it over his Adam's apple. "I've dreamt of fucking you in every inch of this cabin." Catherine grabbed a handful of his hair to wrench his head back into the mattress to which he growled predatorily.

"And how do you know that I don't want to fuck _you?_" She whispered before consuming his lips again, his erection straining against her between their jeans. He undid her zipper as she moaned against his mouth, his tongue casting a wicked spell on her as they danced. He rolled them over as he pulled her jeans off of her slim hips.

"Condom?" He asked as she did the same for him, pulling down his boxers to free his proud manhood from its confinement.

She shook her head. "I'm clean and on the pill. You?"

"Clean."

Catherine grinned mischievously. "Good. Now where were we?" He smiled back as she used an old MMA trick to knock him onto the bed so she could straddle him. Ordinarily, she would've taken her sweet time taking off her bra and panties, but she had waited damn near long enough to claim what was hers and, boy was he ripe for the taking. He ripped her panties off as she unhooked her bra and threw it on the floor.

Vincent breathed out a hiss as he took in her naked body. "God_damn_ if I knew you looked this good I'd never let you wear clothes."

"I could say the same for you, baby," she smiled sweetly as she teasingly grazed her dripping vagina over his erection. He groaned in appreciation which she swallowed as she bent to kiss him. She sat up to sink onto him, throwing her head back as she moaned through her gritted teeth. Vincent swore as he gripped her hips, having trouble controlling himself as she swiveled her hips in a way that could make men dance just for a taste.

"Jesus _fucking _Christ," he groaned, his gravelly voice even hotter to Catherine than it normally was as she began to ride him. She moved her hands from their place on his biceps to his grip on her waist. Her breaths turned to moaning pants, matching his own growling puffs. He sat up to meet her, taking her lips with his as she used her knees to push herself up and down . She gripped his back, dragging red streaks across his taut muscles with her nails.

The way they moved together was so intoxicating, it was almost sinful. Poets and bards travelled around the world searching for sensations like this: electric and heavy yet it could dance across the sheen of sweat on their skin. The Muses of Ancient Greece could scarcely provide inspiration as profound as this to the people who presented them with sacrifices. Whereas most of the world's population merely settled for experiences only half as satisfying as this, Catherine and Vincent could have as much as they wanted for eternity.

Vincent sucked her pulse point as she moaned into his ear, continuing to rock on his hardened cock. She nipped at his jawline between her heady pants, kissing along the outline of his scar. Vincent closed his eyes as she did so, clutching tightly at her back, groaning out her name through clenched teeth.

They kissed one more time as their shared orgasm shuddered through them, synapses firing floods of endorphins like fireworks throughout their bodies. It was better than anything else either of them had felt: more addictive than heroin and more intoxicating than the hardest liquor. Vincent's muscles seized as he hissed out one last groan as she moaned his name.

He fell backwards onto the mattress, bringing a limp and sweaty Catherine with him. She rolled off of his no longer hard manhood to snuggle up next to him, entwining her legs with his as he pulled up the sheets and blanket to lay over their cooling bodies. They didn't say a word for the rest of the night, mostly because they slept like dead logs, but partly because they didn't need to say anything.

They were bound to each other.

**Whew. That was a lot of fun to write but I need to go take a cold shower right about now. **


	12. Homesick

**AN: I know that last chapter may have been a little confusing to some people. Vincent and Catherine finally made love because the desperation of their situation added an air of urgency. Vincent had 'beasted' out because he was so afraid of what might've happened to Catherine while she was gone. Btw, they won't be staying in the cabin for much longer.**

_homesick: sad or depressed from a longing for home or family while away from them for a long time_

When they awoke in each other's arms the next morning, it took them a little while to get their bearings. Both were sore from the previous night's activities, but happily so. Catherine kissed her sleepy Vincent on his chapped lips.

"Morning baby," she said sweetly, like a schoolgirl finally getting to go out with the star of the football team.

"You know, you are just the only person in the world who can call me 'baby' and not get ripped limb from limb," he murmured before kissing her back. Her hand rested on his chiseled chest, her fingers dancing in circles on his skin. His right hand cupped the small of her back while his left stroked her bare shoulder.

"I know what you did, Catherine," he told her softly. "I know that you kicked the shit out of those Muirfield guys. They were still unconscious when I ran to town." Vincent kissed her forehead.

"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have been so violent-" she began to apologize but was interrupted by Vincent's chortling.

"I'm proud of you. A couple of months ago, Catherine, you could barely run fast enough to hold them off for a minute. Now, you can kick ass and fuck my brains out in one night," he was also proud of the fact that he was the one who taught her how to do that (the fighting, not the sex). "You have no idea how relieved I was when I found you. I didn't know if someone else had taken you, if they had back up to pull you into some van to cart you off. I thought I'd lost you." He grinned in spite of himself. "I guess 'I'd thought I lost you' sex is a lot better than just talking it out."

She remained sober. "Vincent, you know we can't stay here much longer. Muirfield is circling us and it's only a matter of time before they find us."

Vincent nodded. "I've been thinking about this for quite a while. Have you ever heard the expression: 'hide in plain sight'?"

Catherine propped herself up on one elbow. "What are you suggesting?"

"We should go back to New York. I can rent a warehouse by the bay with enough room for us to continue training and remain inconspicuous. You can see your family again and get your life started."

"What will I tell my family? About where I've been, I mean?"

"That's one thing I can't figure out," he said apologetically. They sat in silence for a moment before Catherine spoke.

"I could tell them the truth." Vincent balked, absolutely bewildered at the mere suggestion. "Vincent, hear me out: If I tell my dad and Heather the truth, barring the fact that you turn into a Beast periodically to save my ass, then I don't need to remember a lie. Muirfield can't kill my entire family, it'd look way too suspicious and there's no way they can do it without making a mistake. How big is Muirfield anyway?"

"Thirty field agents and maybe a dozen scientists," he nodded, beginning to understand where she was coming from. "I miss the big apple, you know? There's no other place on earth like home, even when I'm with you." Catherine agreed whole-heartedly, not willing to show him exactly how much she had been longing to see her family again.

"I still think you'd be an awesome lawyer, especially with your reasoning skills," he teased, kissing her nose. "We'll leave tomorrow, okay? I just need to make some calls and rent a car with four wheel drive to lug at least some of our stuff down there. But in the meantime," he clambered out of bed with a playful grin on his face, "want to join me for a bath?"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

The next day, Vincent and Catherine had just pulled up to the dilapidated warehouse near the harbor. Its windows were mostly boarded up and rusted out, and even the brick face was beginning to show some wear. The perpetually gray sky which hung over New York City provided them with a sense of separate familiarity from their childhoods.

The man who had sold the warehouse to them assumed Vincent was a high-level drug dealer with Catherine as his whore, so he had given them a good deal on the place. Old warehouse pallets were scattered about the premises as the chain-link fence provided an ominous presence to their new home. Most of the interior was cold and bare save a section that was probably the offices of the people who ran the warehouse so many years ago. They were still heated, with working electricity and plumbing with a large loft space big enough for the sparring equipment they brought with them in their used Oldsmobile Catherine had purchased.

The mattress and a box of pictures from Vincent's childhood were all that could fit in the rust bucket besides their fighting gear. Vincent vowed that he would return to the cabin someday after all of this was over, with Catherine as his wife (he didn't tell her about the last part, though). Most of the day was spent cleaning up their apartment space and reinforcing the boarded up windows and broken locks. Their goal was to create a home that looked abandoned to all outsiders, much like Hogwarts from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_, a book Vincent had gotten two years ago but hadn't read it until recently.

It was sparsely decorated, save the pictures of a young Vincent and his two older brothers taken during various shenanigans they had encumbered upon all those years ago. A duffel bag of clothes for each of them served as dressers and held pretty much all the food they could bring with them. A little gas grill would have to serve as a kitchen for a couple of months, operated by the window so the fumes could vent outside. Despite the lack of amenities, it was home.

**Sorry this was so short! The next chapter is going to be really long, though, because our lovebirds pay a visit to the grieving Chandlers (both Heather and her father). The confrontation between the father and Vincent gets pretty angsty. **


	13. Grief

**AN: Thus far in the story, Cat and Vincent have returned to their hometown: New York City. Vincent grew up in Brooklyn whilst Catherine spent most of her childhood in the suburbs of Queens. Heather's a senior in high school right about this time and still lives with her grieving father. This is what happens when Catherine returns with a mysterious new beau on her arm, and I should warn you, this gets a little OOC from Mr. Chandler's character on the show (however, Heather and Mr. Chandler are actually characters in this fic, instead of mere plot devices on the show).**

_grief: keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret._

Catherine steeled herself by squeezing Vincent's hand with her entwined fingers as she reached up to ring the doorbell of her childhood home. She still had her key, but she didn't feel right just barging in anymore: she hadn't been home in months after her mother's murder. The world went on around them as her own pitiful little life was about to explode all over again.

People passed them by on the sidewalk wrapping around the Chandlers' quaint little house nestled in the heart of Queens, not sparing the couple shivering on the doorstep more than a passing glance. The exposed brick was more lovingly maintained than the warehouse's because this was a proper home: filled with warm memories of her and her family, the ghost of her mother's presence still etched in every inch of the house.

Catherine was about to ring the doorbell again before a smaller, more exasperated version of herself opened the door. "Oh my god, for the thousandth time, I do _not_ want to talk with you about Jesus-," Heather's eyes widened as she took in her older sister's terrified form. Catherine had lost weight, the softness of her facial features more hardened and hollow, and the dark circles underneath her eyes showed how very little she had slept the night before. She was still beautiful, though, and instantly recognizable to her little sister.

"_Catherine!_" Heather half-yelped, half-sobbed as she threw her tiny body into her sister's open arms. Vincent could only watch on awkwardly as the woman he loved cried and held her sibling close, knowing full well that even though she loved him more than she would ever love any man, he would never be able to give her the sense of warmth and familiarity family gave provided her with. They laughed through their tears, relief profoundly pouring over them as they no longer had to worry for the other.

It choked him to know he would never have such a reunion with his family.

Heather pulled back from Catherine's arms to peer over her shoulder at him. He was rather large and domineering, what with the angry scar and ominous glower, but she didn't fear because of the trust Catherine had placed in this man to bring him here. She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve before extending a hand for him to shake.

"Heather Chandler," she said with the same obstinate strength which resided permanently inside of her sister. Vincent shook her hand, but before he could respond, a man he assumed was Catherine's father appeared in the doorway.

Mr. Chandler's loss had obviously taken a tremendous toll on him: his eyes were sunken into his sallow cheeks, his clothing hung loosely off of his wiry frame, and his hair probably hadn't been combed through for a while. His breath had a hint of alcohol to it as he squinted at his daughter's in the sunlight, so Vincent guessed that he was hung over from a binge the night before.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he breathed in amazement, "My little Cathy, is that you?" Now Vincent felt harshly out of place as he intruded upon an extremely intimate familial moment. Catherine smiled, expecting for an embrace similar to Heather's. Vincent saw her father's expression darken a fraction of a second before he raised his arm to strike at his daughter.

He caught Mr. Chandler's wrist before Catherine could even flinch, having moved so fast as to cause Heather to let out a little yelp of surprise. "Let go of me, you miserable cretin," hissed her father, much more intoxicated than Vincent had previously guessed. Vincent shoved their father backwards into the foyer of his house, with as little force as he could muster. Catherine and Heather barged in after them, slamming the door to shut out the prying eyes of their neighbors.

The foyer had very low ceilings, so Vincent had to stoop to avoid hitting his head. It was more like a coat room which led off into the rest of the house.

"You tried to _hit _me?" Catherine demanded, shaking, obviously shocked by her father's sudden character change. Her father had to peer around Vincent's protective stance to yell back at her.

"Four months! Four months without anything but an insipid postcard or two! I buried your mother, riddled with bullets, and I had no idea where you were or if you were okay. Do you have any idea of the hell you've put us through? And who in the world is _this?"_

"Staff Sargent Vincent Keller, Special Forces, deployed to Afghanistan in 2002," Vincent answered for himself, still a victim of his own prideful nature.

"He's a doctor," Catherine added. "And my boyfriend." Heather was absolutely floored, but her father looked all the more furious.

"I had no idea where you were, no idea if you were dead like your mother, and you were _gallivanting around with some Army freak?_" Vincent moved aside so Catherine could respond properly.

"You know, dad I know it's easy for you to take them moral high ground on this but you _weren't there_. You didn't see the bullets rip through her. You didn't feel her blood splatter on your face. _I_ did. And I," she paused to breathe and push the tears back, "I saw their fingers squeeze the triggers when they aimed at me. Vincent is the _only_ reason I'm still here, daddy."

"And she's the only reason I'm still here, too," Vincent supplemented, holding Catherine's hand to show his support.

"I'm sorry, daddy," Catherine sobbed, feeling as emotional and as helpless as she had as a child in this house, "I'm sorry I didn't come back. I'm sorry I didn't stay with mom's body for the police. _I'm sorry I didn't save her_." The anger her father had exhibited was merely a mask he had worn over his fear: fear for his family and fear for his sanity. His attempt to slap her was merely a drunken impulse, not that he was justified in doing so, but he bore her no permanent ill-will. As he had always done for her when she was younger, he enfolded her protectively in his arms.

"You couldn't have saved her, Cathy," he murmured soothingly. He glared distrustfully at Vincent over her daughter's shoulder, with a look that said 'we're not done here'.

"Cat?" Heather asked, not wanting to intrude. "I still have some of mom's things if you wanted to see them." Catherine nodded, wiping her eyes and pulling away from her father, whom she still bore some anger towards for attempting to slap her.

"You know, Heather? I would really like that," Heather took her older sister's hand and led her out of the foyer to her parent's room, leaving Vincent and Mr. Chandler alone to glare at each other.

Vincent could hear Catherine's father's heart rate race (as fast as it could in his inebriated state), as he assessed the man who had been with his daughter all these months. Vincent would not start anything he was not willing to finish, but he kept silent for his lover's sake.

"Who are you to keep my daughter from me?" Mr. Chandler demanded, his speech remarkably clear from the amount of liquor pouring through his veins. When Vincent didn't respond, he pulled his teeth back into a sneer. "No response, eh? How do I know you're not with the people who killed my wife? How do I know you're not some spy sent to sleep with my daughter? Lord knows what goes on in her bedroom."

"Catherine's not like that," Vincent spat, breaking his vow not to start an argument with her father.

"Oh really now? It's good that you know her so well after four months. Did she whore herself out to you as a 'thank you' for saving her life?"

Vincent's fists balled up so tight his nails broke the skin on his palms, but he threw no punch. "I think you need to reassess what you're saying," he hissed through clenched teeth, "Maybe you should sober up before passing judgment on the woman I love."

"You _love _her_? _You don't know what love is, you Army shit. You're a whiny teenager caught up in a hurricane of hormones. What Vanessa and I had? _That_ was true love. I love her more than I could ever love anything else in this life. She was ripped away from me. A piece of me is missing because of those thugs. So don't try to lecture me on love. Don't try to tell me that you _love _my daughter, because love is the worst pain imaginable."

Vincent was speechless. What could he say to that? Could he insist that he truly loved Catherine? Surely love couldn't be like this: leaving nothing but pain and destruction in its wake. But here was living proof, a hollow shell of a man who lost this anchor, torn and ripped to shreds by his grief. Here was a man who stood as a cautionary tale, his liquor stained breath puffing out in pained gasps as he fought back tears. Beyond Mr. Chandler's anger there was nothing, save the shards of his broken heart laying inertly in the confines of his soul.

Vincent couldn't imagine a fate more terrifying.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Catherine and Vincent returned to the warehouse a couple of hours later, Catherine having spent some time crying over her mother's personal effects with her little sister and promised over and over that she would return the next day. All of this emotion she had poured away left her feeling drained, as if she would never feel light or warmth.

"This feels like mom died all over again," she groaned, collapsing in an exhausted heap on floored mattress. "I'm not sad. I'm just…tired. Dealing with Dad's new issues and Heather's grief are exactly why I didn't want to come back." Vincent had been oddly silent on the way home, to which she took notice. "Hey," she cradled his scarred cheek with her calloused fingers, "You okay?"

He sat next to her on the mattress. "What are we doing, Catherine? We've known each other for what, four months? We've poured our hearts out to each other on multiple occasions. We've had sex."

"Where are you going with this?" Catherine was beginning to worry.

"I just- I know with everything I've got that I love you. I can't stand being away from you. I hate to see you in pain. But I don't feel pain or anguish when I'm with you. Isn't that what love is, pain?"

She shook her head. "Who told you that?"

"Your father."

"Yeah, well my Dad also tried to slap me this afternoon after downing half of a bottle of scotch," she kissed him, without any hint of sexual motives. "I love you, remember? We love each other. Love isn't pain, Vincent, love is _fighting _pain." She kissed him again, her lips moving against his as she still cradled his cheek.

While the reunion didn't go exactly as planned, both of them were happy to be back home in New York City.

**Sorry this took so long! My teachers are really laying on the homework before spring break next week. During spring break though I'll be able to post a chapter a day. Love you guys. Seriously. It makes my day to see how you react to my story.**


	14. Anger

**I love y'all's reviews! Catherine's dad in the beginning of this is verrrry OOC, but once he begins to cope I'll steer him nearer to his characterization on the show. Poor guy just lost his wife, ya know? And without Catherine there to hold him down, as she had during the actual series, he turns to alcohol to help himself cope. The beginning of this chapter is just Heather and her father going at it. **

_anger: a strong feeling of displeasure and belligerence aroused by a wrong_

Several hours earlier…

Heather's mind was still racing as she waved goodbye to her long-lost sister and her new beau. She hadn't felt this happiness since her mother had been ripped away from her. Her friends had been kind and tried to be as understanding as they could, but in the end all they did was pity her. Her therapist hadn't really done much either (something her father had done for her during his rare moments of clarity was set her up with some monotonous schmuck). What she really needed was her sister, but Catherine had been off falling in love with some movie-star-hot Army guy. It made Heather so angry she could choke, but she would never dream of harming her sister as her father had attempted to.

Heather braced herself on the front door with her shaky palms as she heard her father come up behind her.

"Heather, are you okay?" His still-drunk tone caused fury to launch through her veins like a catalyst.

"You tried to hit Catherine," she hissed, her back turned to him.

"I apologized."

"No you didn't," Heather turned to face her bleary-eyed father. "You called her a whore and accused her boyfriend of being involved in mom's murder. What's happened to you? You didn't used to be like this." She clenched her jaw to fight back tears, refusing to break down like a little girl.

"You're upset."

"I'm _angry_," her voice shook.

"I'm sorry Heth," her father tried using her nickname to get her on her good side. She was having none of that.

"'Sorry' isn't good enough dad. You tried to hit my big sister. You have swan-dived so far off of the cliff I hardly recognize you anymore."

"I'm grieving, Heather," her father snapped, his gentle tone now gone, turned sharp in his impatience.

"You aren't the only person who lost her, you insufferable drunk. I've had _no one_ to lean on because you're so consumed by 'grief' you can't have a conversation with me."

"I'm sorry I haven't been there for you-"

"Stop saying that! Stop saying you're sorry! I needed you. I needed my dad but you weren't there!"

"I've been here, this entire time," he protested.

"No you haven't," she cried, a tear rolling down her face, "No you haven't daddy. You've been stuck at the bottom of a liquor bottle while I've had to cope on my own."

He looked down at his feet. "Catherine's always been better at this stuff."

Heather rolled her watery eyes in frustration. "That's no excuse. What if Vincent hadn't saved her? What if she had been killed too? You'd still be drunk and angry, except you'd be drinking twice as much for twice the loss. My friends don't know what to say to me anymore. All I get is pity, because all I have left is a missing sister, a dead mom, and a drunk for a father."

"And what do you propose I do? Hmm? Listen to advice from a high school sophomore? Move on with my life?"

"Yes," Heather spat through gritted teeth, literally shaking with anger. "I've had to do it on my own. I refuse to mope around the house like you've been. Catherine moved on as well, and she had to _watch_ mom die." She clenched her fists when her father scoffed. "Catherine loves Vincent, dad. She's happy, and you're acting like she doesn't deserve it."

A solitary tear rolled down her father's face. "And what if I say she doesn't deserve it? Does it make me a monster to think that she shouldn't find the love of her life just after I've lost mine? Why can't _I _happy, Heather? I don't like feeling like this," he started to sob as he sank to his knees in front of his daughter.

Heather couldn't help but feel sorry for her father as she knelt to hug him. "We'll get past this, dad. I promise. We just have to do it one step at a time, okay? You have to stop drinking."

"I know, Heather," he said as she hugged him, "I know, I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize dad, just do it," she pulled back to level her gaze with his. "I'm not the one you need to say sorry to. It's Catherine and Vincent who need the apology." He nodded and wiped the tears from his face.

"I should be doing this for you, Heather. I've been a horrible father, both to you and Catherine."

Heather smiled sadly. "Yeah. You're lucky we're so forgiving." With that, she stood and went upstairs to her room, leaving her father alone on the floor to wallow in his sobering state.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Two days later, Catherine was smoothing the creases in her jeans nervously as Vincent drove their battered Oldsmobile towards the restaurant her father had arranged for them to meet at. Her father had sworn up and down that he wouldn't touch alcohol ever again, and had poured every drop of what he had in the house down the drain. Catherine couldn't help but wonder if Heather didn't have anything to do with her father's sudden attitude change. She was still stung by her father's behavior the other day, but had decided to give it a chance. Vincent glanced over at her as he heard her pulse race.

"You okay?" He asked, looking back at the road ahead of him.

"I'm just nervous, you know? This is the first time you get to see my dad sober. I just-I love you no matter what he says, but I'd just like him to like you." _I want him to give me away at our wedding_, she added to herself, but quickly shoved that though away. It was still too soon for them to be planning a wedding, but it was a silent promise to each other that one day their dreams of a domestic life together would come true.

"I wish I had family left to introduce you to. Blood family, I mean. I've got some friends I'd like to brag about you to." Catherine laughed.

"Is it bad that I want to show you off to all my girlfriends, too?" He shook his head as he pulled into an alley adjacent to the diner they were meeting her family at. Parking in alleyways used to be a big no-no for both of them before, but now no mugger stood a chance against them.

It was an ordinary diner: a dime a dozen here in the city. Faux retro seats, harsh fluorescent lighting, and perky waitresses left not an ounce of uniqueness to this place. It was a neutral meeting place for the two parties because while it was not unbelievably ostentatious, it wasn't some chain dive with horrendous music pounding through wall speakers to deter conversation. It was a place where they could hear without being overheard.

Catherine's father and sister were already sitting in a booth away from the door when the couple entered the restaurant. Heather waved flamboyantly to her sister, still unable to quell the rush of relief whenever her older sister entered her field of vision. Her father smiled, his discomfort written plainly etched upon his face.

"Is he sober?" She whispered under her breath to Vincent, who nodded in confirmation. She slid into the seat opposite her father and Vincent joined her to sit right across from Heather. A redheaded waitress made a beeline for their table.

"Hey, you guys, I'm Alex and I'll be your server today," she breathed, her eyes locked on Vincent's handsome face, much to Catherine's annoyance. "Can I get you guys something to drink? We've got beer on tap." Catherine gauged her father's impassive reaction when alcohol was mentioned, intensifying her almost instantaneous irritation at her waitress.

"What kind of soft drinks do you have?" She interjected sharply, cringing as her waitress rattled them off in that unbelievably perky voice of hers. Heather and her father both ordered root beer.

"And what can I get for you?" Alex asked rather flirtatiously to Vincent, pointedly ignoring Catherine.

"I'd like a chocolate milkshake to share with my _girlfriend_," he responded. Catherine flushed with pride for her man as he flat-out rejected their waitress. Alex went to go get their drinks, a little more put-out than before.

Heather had been watching this entire situation with an eagle eye, assessing Vincent to see if he would falter in his affection for his sister. "So Vincent, how did you know Catherine wanted a milkshake?" She asked, glancing at her sister momentarily before shifting her piercing gaze back to Vincent.

His face fell before apologizing to Catherine. "I totally did not ask you what you wanted, didn't I? I can run after her and ask for something else." Catherine laughed and waved her hand dismissively.

"No, no, I always get the chocolate milkshake when I'm here. This is just the first time I've gotten to share it with anyone," she held his hand below the table.

"So the waitress is pretty hot," Heather blurted, not-so-subtly trying to get a reaction out of Vincent.

"Heather!" Catherine admonished, rather embarrassed by her sister's bluntness.

"Forgive me if I'm unbelievably cheesy in saying this, but it's pretty hard to find other women attractive when Catherine Chandler's your girlfriend," Vincent replied honestly, without missing a beat.

Catherine giggled and playfully elbowed him, feeling like a teenager again. "You're not so bad yourself, mister man."

"So Vincent, that's a pretty nasty scar you've got there," her father interrupted, speaking for the first time so far tonight. "Mind sharing how you got it?" Another wave of irritation flooded through the Chandler girls at their father's newfound brashness.

"Knife fight in Afghanistan."

"Insurgents?"

"My superior, actually," Vincent deadpanned, sticking to the 'share everything' plan he and Catherine had discussed. Both Heather's and her father's expressions fell, but they weren't able to say anything because Alex had returned with their drinks.

"Okay, here's the two root beers and a milkshake for the couple," she said, false sugar souring her tone, obviously not used to being rejected. She left with a swish of her hips, which left Heather and her father to set in on Vincent.

"Why did you attack your superior?" Mr. Chandler demanded, alarmed at the prospect of someone dangerous living with his daughter.

"He had a gun on your wife."

"My mom wasn't in Afghanistan," Heather interrupted.

"Heather, think about it," Catherine said, hoping her sister could see reason without making much of a fuss, "Don't you remember her taking that really long business trip last year? She said she was going to some biomedical research convention in Copenhagen with some of her doctor friends. She was actually in Afghanistan working with a black ops group called Muirfield. Special forces soldiers were recruited to be test subjects in experiments. Vincent was one of them."

"What kind of experiments?" Mr. Chandler asked.

Vincent grimaced. "That's one of the things you're better off not knowing."

Heather exhaled. "Anything else you can tell us?"

"I'm dead," he replied, balking slightly at their horrified expressions. "No! No, not _dead,_ dead. On paper dead," he smirked, "There's even a memorial plaque with my name on it at the hospital I used to work at." They didn't think this was as humorous as he thought it was. "The experiment was terminated late last year after the test subjects weren't doing so well. Pretty much everyone involved has either been killed or is doing the killing. I'm the only test subject left alive."

Catherine squeezed his still-entwined fingers underneath the table reassuringly as she took it from there. "Vincent had been trying to find whoever was left to try and protect them. When he got to the bar, mom was already dead. But he managed to knock the hit men and saved my life."

"The wild animal must've killed the men while they were unconscious," Mr. Chandler mused.

"'Scuse me?"

"A wild animal tore those men apart. It must've done it after you incapacitated them." Both Vincent and Catherine would neither confirm nor shoot down any explanation her father came up with, because the truth was something they were sure he couldn't handle.

The insipid waitress returned to get their orders as they steered the conversation on to more well-mannered subjects. Catherine and Vincent answered questions about their relationship from a still-suspicious Heather.

"So how long have you two been together?"

"Two-and-a-half months," Vincent said, knowing the answer down to the day.

"But Catherine has been gone for four months."

Catherine answered this time. "The first month and a half we were just getting to know each other."

"Where?"

"My parent's cabin," Vincent was enjoying the third degree Heather was giving him, mostly because he loved talking about Catherine.

"Why did you come back to New York?"

Catherine smirked. "Muirfield came after me again a couple of days ago. We decided that hiding wasn't a great idea. I'll probably return to school next semester. Vincent was talking about opening up a clinic in Harlem, under a false name of course, so he could treat people without insurance."

Her father bristled. "What do you mean 'came after you'? Did they hurt you?" Vincent barked out a laugh and slung an arm over Catherine's shoulders. Neither Heather nor her father thought this was funny, so he explained.

"She's not as defenseless as you think she is."

Mr. Chandler's jaw clenched as he assessed Catherine's state. "She's in danger because of you." They were interrupted by Alex serving them their food and handing Vincent the receipt so they could pay at the register once they were finished eating.

Her father was still glaring at Vincent until Heather interrupted him. "Dad, he's not a criminal. He's a hero. He saved Catherine and fell in love with her. Just _look_ at them, I mean jeez you two need to get a freaking room." Catherine giggled, unabashed.

"I'd say that I'll take good care of your daughter," Vincent offered, "but she doesn't need taking care of."

Mr. Chandler pressed his lips into a thin line. "That remains to be seen." They ate their meals in silence, save for the laughs gained from Vincent and Catherine awkwardly trying to drink their chocolate milkshake. While Vincent had made a very good impression on Heather, it would take something akin to a political campaign to win over her father.

After Mr. Chandler paid for everyone, they walked out together towards where Catherine and Vincent were parked. Vincent was going to give Heather and her father a ride back to Queens so they wouldn't have to pay for the cab fare. The night was heavier now, plunging the unlit portion of the 'city of lights' into darkness. The alley had a single spotlight, but Vincent didn't need anything to see the trap they had just walked into.

Muirfield men were waiting in the shadows, the same four men who had attacked Catherine a week ago. Running wasn't an option, as a black SUV had been parked at the mouth of the alley anyway.

Vincent grabbed Catherine's arm, aware in his sudden spike of adrenaline. "They're here," he growled, his voice deepening as he changed.

"Dad, Heather, get in and lay down on the floor of the car," Catherine instructed, handing her father the keys to the Oldsmobile. In a louder voice, she said: "You motherfuckers ready for round two?"

_TO BE CONTINUED_


	15. Solace

**AN: Part TWO! Awwww yiss!**

_solace: comfort in sorrow, misfortune, or trouble; alleviation of distress or discomfort_

"You motherfuckers up for round two?" Catherine yelled, smirking with pride as their bruised features were thrown into sharp relief underneath the one streetlamp in the alley. Mr. Chandler looked up to see his daughter's handiwork on the men's faces as he ushered Heather into the Oldsmobile for cover.

"They are so dead," Vincent hissed before transforming completely into the Beast. Heather yelped from inside the car as she took in Catherine's man's new form. His yellow eyes glowed like hellfire in the abyss of the night.t, his claws gleaning sharply in the glare of the streetlamp. The men did not attack as they had several days ago, one at a time, and instead opted for rushing the little woman and the Beast.

Catherine spun to kick out at any one of them, catching one's face with the heel of her boot, landing her blow hard enough to knock him to the ground. Out of nowhere a fist slammed into her cheek so hard her ears rung and her eyesight went a little wobbly, disorienting her for a minute. Vincent promptly slashed his throat, the man's blood spraying in a crimson arc all over Catherine like a gory sprinkler. She didn't have time to be disgusted as another right hook swung towards her. She ducked under his fist and jammed a couple of quick jabs to his ribcage before kneeing him in the face, bruising her knuckles against his hard ribs.

The two men left standing eyed the couple warily as they stood side by side, fists and claws at the ready. They pulled their guns simultaneously, fitted with silencers to keep down the noise. They squeezed their triggers faster than Vincent could react, bullets whizzing through the air with a high-pitched whine. One grazed Vincent's jacket before he flashed inhumanly fast to them and grabbed ahold of their throats. He held them like a dog would hold a limp rag doll in its jaws for a moment before snapping their necks like toothpicks, their eyes going cold instantaneously.

Catherine rubbed the first man's blood off of her face as Vincent melted back into himself. Her cheek was still sore from the blow she had received, but was thankful for the fact it was the only punch that landed on her. Vincent wasn't so lucky, although it was only a graze, blood was staining the arm of his jacket where the bullet had cut through.

"Catherine, take your family back to their place. I'll get rid of the bodies, their SUV, and get this last guy," he referred to the only live one, "to give up some intel. Meet you back at our place?" Catherine nodded, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before sliding into the Oldsmobile and Vincent started up the SUV blocking her way out. She looked back into the backseat where her father and Heather were still cowering and staring wide-eyed at her.

"Dad, gimme my keys," Catherine commanded, holding her hand out to him.

He didn't budge. "Those men… They could've killed you." He was aghast at her calmness, her lack of fear for both Vincent and those Muirfield men.

"Dad we can talk about this later but I need you to _give me my goddamn keys_." He dropped them into her open palm.

"Where are you taking us?" Heather asked, voice shaking.

"Home. I need to get you guys out of here," her sister replied, gunning the car and waving at Vincent in the SUV as she pulled out of the alleyway. They rode in silence for ten minutes, Catherine checking the rearview mirror repeatedly to make sure she wasn't being followed. She took wrong turns and made loops around blocks just to be safe. Her knuckles were beginning to swell from punching her opponents at full force without gloves on, smarting painfully as she tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

"Cat, you have blood all over you," Heather remarked, her voice less shaky and calmer, seeing the blood on her sister's face in the reflection in the rearview mirror.

"I know, I'll get it off later," Catherine sighed.

"Did Vincent teach you how to fight like that?"

"Some of it. The rest I had to learn from kung-fu movies because he's too big to do the showy stuff."

"'Give a man a fish, he eats for a day, but if you teach a man to fish, he feeds for a lifetime'," Mr. Chandler mused.

"What?"

"Instead of just promising to save you every time you're in danger, he trusts you to take care of yourself. It takes a man with a lot of humility to do that," her father had too much pride to come out right and give his approval, so Catherine took what she could get.

"Thanks dad." She pulled up in front of their house before setting the brakes and looking back at them. "When you get inside, lock all the doors and windows, shut all the blinds, and keep the lights off until tomorrow," she instructed.

"Wait, you're not coming with?" Heather asked, suddenly terrified for her sister.

Catherine shook her head. "It's not my house anymore. I'll be by tomorrow to check on you guys." They started to leave as she grabbed her father's wrist with her newfound strength. "I don't care if you hate me right now, but do not tell _anyone_ about Vincent or Muirfield or anything that just happened."

She released him before he responded, "I could never hate you. And tell Vincent 'thank you' for saving my family." He sent her a reassuring smile before taking Heather into the house with him. She breathed a sigh of relief when the door shut behind them and they were safe.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

She pulled up to the warehouse in a daze, the Muirfield agent's blood now dried and coagulated on her skin and into the soft cotton of her clothes. Her cheek was now beginning to swell and redden into the angry beginnings of a bruise. All she wanted was the man inside of the warehouse.

It sort of disturbed her, as she mused on her way inside, how little she cared about the fact that her boyfriend had killed three men and had forced a fourth off to God knows where. It was as if her life was now a war zone, as if all of her moral absolution had been washed down the drain with the ambiguity of justice and self-defense. What terrified her even more was the fact that she _liked_ fighting those men. She liked feeling powerful, but what she liked the most was seeing Vincent in his purest form, his strength and the awesome responsibility riding on his shoulders. He was just so damn heroic.

"Vincent?" She called as she got inside. "Babe, you here?" She climbed up the stairs, her knees protesting painfully, and staggered into their apartment.

In the middle of their bedroom, moonlight dappling over his soft skin through cracks in the windows, he stood naked. Dried blood had caked in the wrinkles in his skin on his calloused hands. His powerful, well-defined muscles flexed as he brought his hand closer to his face to examine it better. The bullet graze he had received earlier had healed to where it was but a mere scrape on his bicep. Catherine took his lead and shed her soiled clothes as well, setting them aside so they could be burned later.

"Maybe I'm just being selfish, but I'm really glad this isn't my blood," Vincent remarked without looking at her. Catherine grabbed his hand, her fingers stuck together with the glove of blood, spatter dotting above her t-shirt neckline.

"Let's get this shit off of us, okay?" He nodded, letting her lead him into the bathroom adjacent to their living space. Their shower was not unlike the one used in military camps, simple and with bruising water pressure. The initial spray made them hiss in discomfort until it warmed to a temperature of their liking. Steam rose up around them like tendrils of an ethereal, gossamer ghost moving in and encompassing them in a cocoon. The water beneath them ran crimson as it filtered down the drain, their sins washing away with it.

The only window held a perfect picture of the ebony-white moon hanging beautifully in the night sky. Their clasped hands became clean under the heavy stream, the spatter dissolving off of Catherine's neck and face. Vincent bent to kiss her, pressing his naked torso to hers, feeling her heartbeat quicken against his chest. She responded enthusiastically, biting his bottom lip, and gripping his biceps as if to keep him grounded.

Vincent pressed her against the wall beneath the showerhead, the scalding water running between them as a tangible representation of the heat stirring in their bellies. Catherine wrapped her legs around his hips, grinding her hips against his erection.

"May I?" He asked.

"_God yes_," she practically cried before he entered her. Hours after the fact, she would feel the scrapes on her back caused by the friction from being fucked against a cement wall, but now she couldn't concentrate on anything besides Vincent. The way he moved inside of her, riding the thin line between pain and pleasure, was so much different than the first time they had made love. With Vincent at the reins, Catherine had to do nothing but throw her head back to please him.

She couldn't keep her hands off of him, squeezing his taut ass and clenching his muscled shoulders. She kissed the column of his throat, near his jugular, possibly the most vulnerable spot on the human body. The fact that he let her touch him so intimately alone showed a testament to their bond. Whatever fear they had felt earlier that night for the other was being pounded away, the relief of each other's touch soothed any anxiety.

She arched against him, her eyes shut as she moaned, gripping the wall against her for purchase. Catherine feared if she didn't grab ahold of something she would float away on this cascade of sensations. Vincent nipped at her collarbone and jawline as she gripped him tight with her thighs. She couldn't believe how she had settled for anything less than this with her past partners, the raw wounds of emotion opened up to pour into their love, mixing and coalescing as an unspoken promise wove between them: No matter what happened, one would never abandon the other, regardless of the situation.

"_Vincent_," she choked out as she came, clenching around his hard cock, teeth gritted together as she moaned. He came moments later, stilling inside of her as he gripped Catherine tight to him. They gasped together, foreheads resting against the other's.

From the outside looking in, some would say that being aroused by death and violence was a sign of corruption or demonic possession. Others would say that such an adrenaline rush due to a near-death experience would trigger a spike in libido. But honestly, they just needed to know that the other was okay. The solace and comfort they found in their love-making was something they needed to survive, to avoid being bogged down by such a heavy situation.

Muirfield was still hunting them, though, so when they lay in each other's arms that night they decided to stop waiting to be ambushed.

Vincent and Catherine would take the war to Muirfield. And boy, was Muirfield going down.

**Thanks to y'all still readin'! Sorry bout the smut, but I just can't help myself. Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated.**


	16. Oppose

**AN: I hope I can get this done in one day. This is going to be a long chapter, though. Thanks for the reviews. I decided to have Tess in this story, but I sort of tweaked her character just a little. JT is going to be pretty much the same. **

_oppose: to act against or provide resistance to; combat. stand in the way of; hinder; obstruct._

Catherine had called her best friend later that morning. Tess' groggy voice answered the phone. "Ugh, what? Who is this?" She had probably stayed up late the night before doing homework for her Law Studies classes at the local community college.

"Tess? It's Catherine," Cat braced herself for her friend's reaction.

"Listen, I'm not in the fucking mod to be played with. Who is this?" Tess snapped, practically growling into the receiver.

"It's really me, Tess."

"I'm hanging up-"

"Wait! I can prove it! You have a tattoo of a butterfly on your ass that you got last year when you were so drunk you could hardly see straight. I let you squeeze my hand anytime it hurt which turned out to be the entire procedure."

"Cat?" Tess' voice broke a little when she said her lost friend's name. Tess never cried except for the days after her father had died, and the fact she was doing so now broke a dam inside of Catherine.

"Tess, I really need you right now," Catherine sobbed into the receiver, tears falling back into the ruts on her face. Tess was up there next to Heather, practically a sister to Catherine since childhood.

"Where are you? I'll come and get you," Tess said sincerely, sniffling a little to fight against her own emotions. Catherine prattled off the warehouse's address before Tess yelled, "Hold the fuck up, girl. _Have you been in New York this entire fucking time?_"

"No, I just got back. There's a hole in the chain link fence near the east wall of the building. We live in the loft upstairs."

"Who's 'we'?"

"I'll explain later." Tess told her that she would be there in a couple of hours and to stay put where she was. Catherine broke her promise almost immediately by running to the Chandlers' house and picked up her father and little sister. She had called them before she had called Tess so they would be prepared, but she hadn't told them where she was taking them.

Their eyes widened in disbelief as she pulled up to the warehouse with them piled into her battered Oldsmobile.

"You _live_ here?" Heather gasped.

Catherine smiled. "This was Vincent's idea. He said it was a good hideout."

Her father examined the domicile over the rims of his glasses skeptically. "It's not very inconspicuous. And it's not very secretive if you bring people here."

"That's the whole point," Cat replied, leading the way through the gap in the fence, "We've decided to stop keeping secrets. They never stay secret very long, anyway."

Vincent had ran (literally) off to get one of his lifelong buddies, his friend JT, from his dorm upstate, and had promised Catherine to return by the afternoon with his friend and car in tow. He had left during the dark hours of the morning after their discussion so he could run at his full "Beast" speed under cover of the night.

XxXxXxXxXxX

A very anxious Tess had stormed up into the loft, startling the bejeezus out of Heather and Mr. Chandler, looking frazzled and absolutely exhausted. She brightened instantly when she spotted Catherine sitting on some plastic chairs next to her family. Catherine hadn't had a chance to get up before she was bowled over by a shrieking Tess.

"I thought you were dead!" Tess exclaimed squeezing her lost friend so tight Catherine began to wheeze. Tess' smile didn't last long when she spotted the bruise on Cat's cheek from the Muirfield man. "Who the fuck did this to you?" She launched into uber-protective mode.

Catherine put her hands on Tess' shoulders, just glad she could _touch_ her best friend. "I'll explain once Vincent gets back with his friend."

"Speaking of the devil," called a familiar, gravelly voice. Vincent clambered up the stairs with a man who looked like he really needed a Tums. He was only a couple of inches shorter than Vincent, but was a little bit rounder in an adorable-teddy-bear-sort-of-way. His hairline was beginning to recede, made up by the scruff growing on his chin.

"Hey babe," Catherine greeted, disentangling herself from Tess to flounce over to Vincent and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"'Babe'?" His friend repeated, bemused. "V, you never let anyone call you _'babe_'." It took him all of three seconds to see that his childhood friend had found the love of his life. _I'm going to get shit for this, _Vincent thought, but he didn't really care. He was just happy to be with his girl.

"You must be JT," Catherine stunned him with her blinding smile and extended a hand for him to shake.

"You must be Catherine, _'the moon of Vincent's night'_," he shot that last part at Vincent, who scowled at him.

"Wow, Cat, you leave for a few months and come back with a movie star," remarked Tess, staring in awe at Cat's handsome new man.

"Vincent, this is Tess, Tess this is Vincent," Catherine said, allowing for them to awkwardly wave to each other. Each of the Chandler's was introduced to JT before everyone was directed to sit in any of the plastic chairs Vincent and Cat had set out.

"We've gathered you all here because we believe that you're in danger because of your proximity to Vincent and me. Whether you're family or close to it, they either have already begun to track you or are getting right on to you," Cat began, only to be interrupted by Tess raising her hand.

"Is this why someone broke into my dorm room? Nothing's missing, but my door was busted in. I had to shell out two hundred bucks to fix it." Catherine nodded.

"They probably put a bug in your room. It's not as small as if is in spy movies, so they might have had to wire it into your mattress or inside of a lamp," Vincent answered. "We're talking military-grade spy shit here, designed to be undetectable by radio frequencies or microwaves."

JT put up his hand. "Wait a minute, who's 'they'? And I think someone might've broken into my apartment last month. They stole some of my Grateful Dead CD's, though. _Bastards_."

"They call themselves Muirfield. In 2002, they went around asking special forces soldiers to sign up for 'radical biological experiments'. I signed up, being the idiot that I am, and now I'm running from them."

Tess' eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What does that have to do with us?"

"My mom was a doctor administering the experiments, though her intentions were in the right place, her actions caused some unwanted side effects."

"Like Vincent turning into a man-Beast?" Heather piped up. Tess pulled a face.

"What is this, the X-files?"

Heather scoffed. "Cat, punch him. That'll show her, won't it?"

Vincent shook his head. "That doesn't do anything. I have to be legitimately afraid. Or, as JT saw this morning, anxious."

JT chuckled. "That's not the worst I've seen you, dude." Mr. Chandler's eyes narrowed at Vincent disapprovingly.

"_Anyway_," Catherine interjected sharply, "the experiments, barring my boyfriend, were a complete failure. Muirfield shut it down and gave orders to exterminate the test subjects and the doctors who had developed the experiment. That's why mom was killed. The only reason they're after the rest of you are because both Vincent and I are alive after multiple assassination attempts.

"The latest of these attempts occurred last night. I had knocked out one and Vincent had killed the other three. The only hit man left from last night probably ran back to Muirfield. They're probably becoming desperate, so they'll be coming back soon for us. A couple months after they dispose of us, they'll probably come after you guys, one by one, until everyone close to us is dead."

"So what is it that you're proposing?" Her father asked.

"A new agency, called Homeland Security, is responsible for Operation Muirfield," Vincent replied. "If we have enough witnesses, particularly one with a computer background," he added pointedly to JT, "we can convince them to shut down Operation Muirfield and court-martial everyone involved."

JT raised his hand again. "What does this have to do with computers?"

Catherine answered this time: "You'll be able to upload our testimonials up onto your computer, and if we are killed, those testimonials will be released to every major news agency in the US."

JT grinned. "I can put a time-lock on it, so if I don't log on to my computer in a certain number of hours, it'll release the information automatically. I like the way you two think."

Catherine saw the unclear expression on Tess' face and became a little concerned if her friend was in this or not. "Tess, are you okay?"

Tess clenched her fists. "I just…they killed your mom, you know? She was like a mother to me. They attacked you and broke into our houses."

"And?"

"And…honestly? I'd rather shoot them up than blackmail them."

Catherine smiled. "Does that mean you're in?"

"Let's get these cocksuckers."

"I'm with Tess, only with less swearing," her father conceded.

Heather clapped her hands excitedly. "I'm totally in. Wait till those anarchists at school hear about how I'm a _real _rebel."

Vincent turned to his friend. "JT, you in?"

JT shrugged. "I've got nothin' else to do," he broke into a grin. "I'm in all the way."

Tess laughed. "We totally need code names." They spent the next hours hashing out the details of their lobby to Homeland Security. Heather was the only minor, but that didn't deter her any as they formulated plans to get out of their sticky situation alive.

In the end, their plan was this: Vincent, Catherine, Tess, and Mr. Chandler would all meet with the department head of Homeland Security, James Fasco, to propose the termination of Operation Muirfield. Insert blackmail as needed. Heather and JT would wait outside of the Homeland Security headquarters to monitor the situation as needed. Heather's dual enrollment at a community college for engineering classes would pay off nicely as she would place wireless modems around the building so she could stay in radio range of their four infiltrators. Each of their team going into the headquarters would be fitted with fiber-optic listening devices so they wouldn't be detected by the metal detectors.

Each member of the team brought a unique skill to the table: Heather's engineering prowess, JT's hacking skills, Mr. Chandler's psychiatric practice made him an expert interrogator, Tess' knowledge of the law, Vincent's super human abilities, and Catherine's reasoning processes under pressure made them into a formidable opponent against Muirfield.

The best part about it was the fact that Muirfield wouldn't see them coming.

**I'm totally BS'ing the spy stuff. I have no freaking idea if there are such things as fiber-optic listening devices. Just roll with it. Reviews and any advice on how to write a spy-movie-esqe chapter would be greatly appreciated. Otherwise, I'm just going to use my experience from working with state senators in DC. **


	17. Espionage

**AN: Just so y'all know, there's probably another five chapters left before everything is all done. I've got a great idea for another AU but there's probably going to be a lot more violence in that one (but the tone is going to be lighter, so they won't just be moping around for the first half dozen chapters like they did in this). **

**They're setting up for their infiltration of the Homeland Security headquarters. Homeland Security was pretty much brand new in 2004 (which is where we are now in the story), so there's bound to be some kinks in the system. This chapter describes the team finding and exploiting those weaknesses. **

_espionage: the act or practice of spying. use of spies by a government to discover the military and political secrets of other nations._

Heather had been rewiring the circuits in her new wireless internet modems for about three hours before she felt her exhaustion begin to creep through her system. Her fingers ached and her eyelids became heavy, something detrimental to her health as she operated a soldering gun to weld the wires together. She took a break from her place at Vincent and Catherine's folding table to peer out of one of the warehouse's intact windows. The city seemed so distant from here, nothing but the echoed calls of car horns and engine revs. Here, silence and solitude reigned supreme, allowing for her mind to wander freely.

Her eyes glazed over as Tess joined her at the window and presented her with a mug of hot chocolate.

"It's a lot different than those Legos you used to play with, ain't it?" Tess jibed lightly, gently elbowing her surrogate sister. "How are you holding up?"

Heather's gaze remained to pierce through the dirty window. "I don't know anymore. For the first couple of weeks after mom died, I was a complete wreck. I wasn't really sad, I was just so _angry_. I'd see people pass me by in school smiling and laughing and I'd just think, 'How dare they? Why do they get to be happy when my mother is dead?' Then I'd come home to dad passed out on the couch. It's a wonder he still had patients to listen to after he started drinking.

"My friends were good to me. I mean, they cried with me for a day or so, but afterwards they just walked on eggshells around me. I couldn't have anyone over to our house to see us in the horrible states we were in. It took me a couple of weeks to realize that the world just didn't give a shit about some dead doctor and her missing daughter. So I grew up."

Neither Heather nor Tess was aware of Catherine listening in from her perch on the stairs behind a wall. Heather continued: "What I really needed was Cat, you know? I mean, she _always _knew what to say to me whenever I had a nightmare or a bad day. Mom was always on call during the night shift at the hospital, and dad was never very good at that kind of stuff. My big sister became my second mom.

"But when I needed her the most, she runs off to be with the man who saved her life. I feel guilty for having resented her for that. She told me that she and Vincent helped each other out of a pretty dark place. I mean, Jesus, you just have to look at them for a _second_ to see that they've got something worth fighting for." Heather's lip trembled, but she didn't allow herself to shed a tear. "I'm just so _sick_ of crying."

Tess wrapped an arm around Heather's shoulders just as an older sister would and gazed out of the window with her. "I miss her, too. I loved your mom as much as I loved my dad. I was lying yesterday when I told Cat that I thought she was dead. I'd lay awake for hours wishing that my best friend would call or burst through my doors. I thought I had died and gone to heaven when she called, literally. I thought maybe I had fallen asleep at the wheel and driven off the side of the road." Tess' voice began to shake. "But I was happy, because that would've meant that I could spend the rest of eternity in the afterlife with my best friend.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that I'm alive and Cat's return is real, but your mom left this _mess. _I don't know if we can beat this Operation Muirfield or not, but if we lose, I'll go down swinging with my favorite people." Tess kissed the top of Heather's head. Catherine had heard everything from the stairwell, but decided not to show it as she composed herself to bring up the pizza she had picked up.

"Hey guys, pizza!" Cat announced a little too brightly. Mr. Chandler and JT mounted the stairs at the notion of food, having just come back from their errand. "Where's my knight in shining armor?" Catherine asked.

JT rolled his eyes. "He's out playing batman, but he'll be back in a couple of minutes. Have you seen him on the rooftops? The guy just runs across them like he's walking on air. _Showoff._"

"I heard that!" Vincent's voice called from somewhere outside before he stepped in through a door which blended in with the wall. He looked positively chipper, clutching a large cardboard tube like a little boy at Christmas time. His hair was mussed up to the degree that could make even married women swoon. "Hey, hun, did you know there's a camouflaged ladder leading up to this hidden door? It's _awesome._" He asked Catherine, giving her a swift peck on the cheek before placing the cardboard tube on the folding table.

"What's this?" She inquired.

"Blueprints to the Homeland Security HQ," he announced proudly. "Had to steal them from the original architect's office."

"Are we going to Mission Impossible this?" Snorted Tess through a mouthful of pizza.

Mr. Chandler answered this one. "We just need to know where exits are in case anything goes wrong," he took the blueprints from Vincent and unfurled them on top of the pizza box. "We'll be going through the front door, here," he pointed to a dot on the extensive plans, "and Mr. Fasco's office is here," he indicated another dot in the middle of the building. "The building is only one story, a preventative measure against terrorist attacks. Each of the hallways we'll be heading down has at least one sub-hallway branching off towards a fire exit."

JT jumped in. "We'll have to memorize where they are, of course. We can't just be running around looking for an emergency exit, we _have_ to know where the nearest one is at all times. We have no idea if anyone from Muirfield is going to be there and recognize Vincent, but it's very probable that director Fasco has been made aware of the situation and will recognize Vincent very quickly. We want to catch him in his office so we can have some privacy, but we will corner him somewhere else if need be.

"If he alerts security, I'll be able to pick it up from my location here," he pointed to a parking spot on the east side of the building, "and I'll block the signal from reaching the security desk which is here, approximately 200 yards from the director's office."

"My modems have a wireless range of a 300 yard radius," Heather piped up. "We'll have to place them on each corner of the building, presumably in a bush or a tree, so no one can come and mess with them. You'll each have clear plastic earpieces, but the wire is going to be threaded through your hair. Dad your earpiece will look like the ones the security personnel are issued and you'll be wearing a suit like theirs so you can blend in. The wires will be fed to a transmitter," she grabbed a walkie-talkie-type device from her work station, "and we should have two-way communication."

"Most high school sophomores wouldn't have had a clue about anything you just said," Catherine remarked with pride. Heather mock curtsied before Tess cut in.

"Once we get to Fasco, we'll need to have some prearranged talking points. I have a feeling he won't want to listen for very long, so we'll have to make it short. Vincent will probably have to do most of the talking. Mr. Chandler, you'll have to stand watch outside of his office, but you'll be dressed like their security guys, so that shouldn't be a problem. If we are interrupted by security, they'll probably grab Cat and I first, before trying to tackle Vincent. Cat, if she's as good as she says she is, will take them down without Vincent having to 'beast out'."

"What will we do if Mr. Fasco refuses to shut down Operation Muirfield, despite the blackmail?" Mr. Chandler asked. They fell silent, having planned out pretty much every other scenario except for that one.

After a minute of refusing to meet each other's eyes, Heather broke the silence. "Kill or be killed. These bastards won't rest until after we're dead unless we shut them down. I know what you're going to say, dad," she snapped at her father, who had just opened his mouth to protest, "that I'm too young to fight. I'm too young to die, but if I'm going to go down, I'm going down swinging."

Mr. Chandler made a pained expression before he spoke. "As much as I hate the idea of my little girls fighting men with guns, I heartily agree. Your mother would be so proud of the both of you."

JT cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. "So when are we doing this?"

"Two days from now," Catherine answered. "Mr. Fasco will have just flown in from a peace conference in Copenhagen on Tuesday, which will have some of the security team escorting documents from the airport to the President. There will still be some two dozen security personnel, but we'll have dad dressed up like one to draw suspicion from us."

"I've got one of my Army contacts making some fake I.D.'s to get us past the first desk. He hates Muirfield just as much as we do, so he was willing to do this for free. The I.D.'s should be ready by tomorrow, but we'll probably have to get you a suit like the security guys," Vincent added, talking to Mr. Chandler. "The security guys won't be equipped with real guns; they'll be tazers and stun guns, which hurt a lot less."

Catherine's eyes lit up momentarily as she just remembered something. "Vincent, the last couple of times we worked out you taught me how to use an impact baton. They aren't entirely made of metal, so they shouldn't be picked up on the metal detectors."

"Yeah, but where would you put it? They are collapsible only to a point, and if they're hidden in a jacket they just look like a pipe bomb," Vincent mused.

Tess laughed. "Obviously you've never worn Rocket Dogs. They're boots with gaps big enough for pepper spray, or in this case, an impact baton."

They finished up hashing out the details before everyone was too tired to continue. An agreement was made to meet up tomorrow afternoon with their finished products. Heather and JT would have to work through the night on their respective projects to have everything finished by that time, but everyone else could get in three hours or so of sleep.

The day after that they would be going to war.

**BTW, I thought it was weird how in the show, every one of the Chandlers is really smart except for Heather. Her mom is a doctor, her dad is a psychiatrist, her big sister went to Princeton, but Heather acts like she's three? That's why Heather's a math and engineering nerd in this and not some ditzy, whiny teenager. **

**I realized why I disliked Cat's father so much: he was an assassin on Nikita that killed EVERYONE so I was all freaked out when he showed up on BATB. Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated. **


	18. Soldiers

**AN: Their infiltration of headquarters is going down! I know that the Homeland Security HQ is actually in DC, but I'm just going to pretend it's in New York in 2004. So yeah…Enjoy!**

_soldier: a crusader for a cause one believes in so strongly that they are willing to sacrifice everything for the greater good_

JT's old van had definitely seen better days. Twenty years ago, it had rolled off of the Chrysler assembly line in Detroit, it's blocky shape and chrome wheels shiny with recycled, generic pizzazz most people were searching for in the '80's. The upholstery was worn and tattered by so many people's asses sitting in the leather seats. It creaked and groaned as it mounted bumps and potholes.

"Aw shit, JT, you should get this piece of junk _replaced_," Vincent laughed, not willing to show how nervous he was for the task ahead of him. Catherine readjusted her collar and earpiece nervously next to him, unknowingly flashing him with her bra for the umpteenth time and causing his pants to tighten uncomfortably.

The hollowed out panel van was passed down to JT from his father, who was a cable guy for upper Manhattan, and served as an excellent headquarters once their 'field team' was inside of the building. For now, Vincent, Tess, and Catherine sat on the floor in the back whilst Heather and Mr. Chandler were going to meet them at the building after Heather activated her customized wireless modems.

Each of the field team was dressed as if they were dressed for the office, except for Mr. Chandler, who had to wear a blue suit with an American flag pin to match the security personnel. Catherine and Tess wore flat-heeled boots with their impact batons tucked inside. Neither wore skirts or anything that would hinder them should a fight break out. Vincent's hair had been slicked back and parted to cover his plastic earpiece coiling down his shirt and to the transmitter hooked inside of his jacket. Everything was made with fiber-optic cable and wiring so the metal detectors wouldn't go off as they walked inside.

Vincent's superhuman hearing became acutely aware of Catherine's heart pounding away in her chest.

"Hey," he soothed, wrapping an arm around her to pull her close to him. "You okay? You nervous?"

Catherine grinned. "I'm excited. If we succeed, which we totally will, you can come back from being dead on paper. We can get married and spend the rest of our lives together."

"And what if we don't succeed?"

"Then we'll get married in Mexico under the names Jose and Maria," she answered simply before pecking him on the lips and leaning into his embrace.

Tess feigned gagging noises. "Oh my _god_, you two. Can't you wait until _after _we take down a secret government organization to make wedding arrangements? I mean honestly, have you even proposed to her?"

Vincent shrugged. "I think we pretty much understood from the get-go that this was going to be a forever thing. Marriage just comes with the territory, I guess. _JT I can practically hear your eyes rolling_," he raised his voice so his friend in the front could hear.

"You two just need to stop. I'm getting pregnant just watching you look at each other. Imagine how uncomfortable Cat's dad feels with your lovey-dovey shit," JT replied, not even taking his eyes off of the busy streets to snark at Vincent.

"You had best watch what you say, mister," Vincent threatened, "or my girlfriend will beat you up." Cat and Tess laughed, enjoying the break from their dour nervousness. The joking around gave their minds a respite from the constant worrying they'd been doing for the last couple of days.

JT slowed and parked, before turning back and stating ominously, "We're here, you guys."

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Steve Winslow readjusted his suit jacket uncomfortably from his perch at the front security desk. His title as 'administrative officer' at Homeland Security sounded a lot more glamorous and action-packed than what his job actually entailed. His stomach strained painfully at the confines of his pleated uniform, his forty-something beer gullet churning irritably.

_Who the hell is this Silverfox guy anyway? _He grumbled to himself. Anytime his boss, Mr. Fasco, was pissed off, everyone under him was unpleasant as well. This Siverfox douche was the head of some secret Army operation Homeland had been funding since its infancy, and had become a real thorn in Fasco's side, causing some real bullshit employee policies to trickle down.

Half of the security team was escorting documents from the Copenhagen peace conference to the White House, leaving some two dozen men to hold down the fort. The gigantic, cream marble building was a massive, one story fortress designed to be a formidable statement against terrorism. The enemies of the state would tremble in fear at the mere sight of it.

Winslow fought back a whistle as two drop-dead gorgeous women walked in through the front door, one short and exotic and the other tall with deep-caramel skin. A large man with a rather prominent scar on his right cheek walked in behind them, presumably a representative of one of those nutty grassroots organizations constantly pestering Homeland about keeping the goddamn peace.

While Winslow was being distracted by the eye-candy, another older man, dressed as one of the security guys with a plastic earpiece coiling down into his collar, snuck past the metal detectors with a simple flash of his ID badge. The lobby had three lines into the metal detectors, full of office workers and political activists eager to meet with influential people or to simply get to work. The cameras stuck to the ceiling delivered low-quality footage to an office to the right of the lobby, which was full of inattentive security guards.

The tiny, exotically beautiful woman who had caught his eye earlier was staring at him. She nudged her tall female companion and nodded towards him. They waved flirtatiously, flashing blinding smiles designed by women to catch men unawares. He caught himself smiling back and decided to get up to let past the security checks. They murmured their thanks to him as they waltzed past him, Winslow having had to unlock the rope to let them past. Their male companion stayed in his line, terrifying Winslow with his possessive glare when he caught the middle-aged security guard eyeing their backsides as they swished away from him. He didn't look back to see the women meet with the same salt and pepper haired guard who had snuck past him earlier.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"I feel like killing someone already," Vincent hissed under his breath as he watched the love of his life use her aesthetic charms to sneak past the metal detectors.

"_Not everyone is a gentlemen like you, big guy," _JT consoled inside of Vincent's ear, who could see what was going on from his view from the hacked-into security cameras. Vincent growled, ignoring the appreciative glances from the women around him, also waiting in the lines for the metal detectors. The suit he had been stuck in was too tight around his shoulders and biceps, obstructing his movements, but also showing off his muscles for the ladies to savor.

The only reason the girls had to sneak past the metal detectors was the fact they had to take off their boots, which happened to contain collapsible impact batons. Vincent got through just fine, the non-metal alternatives in his listening devices weren't picked up by the gigantic metal detectors. He caught up with Tess, Cat, and Mr. Chandler who all were waiting for him in the hallway leading away from the lobby.

The hallway itself didn't allude to the same grandeur other governmental buildings possessed; its high ceilings were covered in plaster and its walls were solid marble and limestone. Office workers bustled about, arms laden with briefcases and paperwork inches thick, cups of coffee were handled with care as the piping hot liquid was perched in precarious positions.

"_Mr. Fasco's office is one hundred and seventy-five yards straight down the hall, another thirty yards to the right, and fifteen yards straight ahead of that," _Heather said over their universal communication line, so they all could hear at once. Vincent walked in front of Cat and Tess, whilst Mr. Chandler brought up the rear, a formation similar to one that the actual security guards would use.

Vincent had never been particularly ashamed of his facial scar, he always wore it like a badge of honor, and Cat always told him it made him even sexier than he already was. But the way he was getting stares from everyone coming toward them, the way people listed to the other side of the hallway as they passed made him wish that he had covered it up before they had embarked this morning. He decided ultimately to ignore the stares, to square his shoulders and to carry himself like a soldier.

"_Fasco just arrived in his office with breakfast, so it looks like if you hurry, you can catch him without drawing suspicion,_" JT stated, having caught their bald, squat target in one of the security cameras as he scurried into his office. They quickened their pace just as Heather added something else.

XxXxXxXxXxX

With just Heather and JT in the van, they were able to use the hollowed-out back space like they did in all of those spy movies JT grew up with; two laptop screens conveying all twenty security camera views, five different radio-walkie-talkies converted to only converse with their field team, and a main wireless modem connecting Heather's four other modems secured around the building.

They had just watched James Fasco, the director of Homeland Security, run into his office with his breakfast, obviously in some kind of hurry. There was a separate camera for his office, which was zoomed in so close they could see the sweat beaded on the crown of his head. JT covered the mike before murmuring to Heather: "He looks nervous."

Heather nodded in agreement. Another man entered Fasco's office and shut the door after him. He was dressed like everyone else in the building, a grey suit with a buzzed haircut. "Hey guys," she said into the microphone, "Fasco's got company and he doesn't look happy about it."

"_Copy that_," Vincent replied into his microphone, as automatically as any other trained soldier. "Is he always like that?" Heather whispered to JT.

"He, like most people would be, was more fun before his entire family was killed," he replied, creating an awkward silence before Heather let out a little yelp.

"He's got a gun!" She yelled, pointing at the man in Mr. Fasco's office, who indeed, did have a 9mm with a silencer aimed at Director Fasco.

"Do you copy that, guys? There's a man with a gun on Fasco. He's got it pointed straight at Fasco's head," JT hissed into the microphone.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

_"Normally I wouldn't recommend heroics, but if this guy gets dead, we ALL get dead," _JT shouted into the microphone. Director Fasco was the only person who could shut down Muirfield, so they all could appreciate the urgency in this situation.

"Copy that," Vincent said, breaking into a run with the others following behind them. Office workers made a beeline to get out of their ways as they followed Heather's directions to Fasco's office. The remaining security guards immediately tried intercepting them, but Mr. Chandler used the authority he carried with him in his uniform.

"Security breach in Fasco's office!" He shouted as they sprinted past. Cat and Tess were glad they hadn't worn heels or skirts as they lengthened their strides, zooming around the corners and aghast government officials.

"_Guys, Muirfield has GOT to be doing this, because everyone in the reception area around his office just got guns pulled on them. There's half a dozen plain-clothed office workers that just randomly started packing heat," _JT informed them. "_Change of plans. Do NOT let anyone else go into Fasco's reception area. I'm calling off the guards who saw you." _

JT wasn't wrong, they perceived as they arrived to the door at the mouth of the reception area to Fasco's office. Two secretary's desks and several chairs were the only furniture for the hostages to cower behind as six gunmen –dressed as office workers- pointed their silenced pistols at the half-dozen people who actually belonged there. The fact that there were just enough gunmen for the number of hostages suggested that Muirfield hadn't known that Vincent and his crew would be there.

Tess and Cat whipped out their impact batons and Vincent let Catherine run ahead of him to tackle the man nearest to the door. She knocked his legs out from under him with her foot as her arm and baton whipped out to catch the throat of another man, landing on the floor from the force of her tackle. She recovered almost immediately, flipping onto her feet and then jumping onto one of the desks. She didn't see the gunmen behind her disregard their respective hostages and take aim at her.

They didn't get out any shots before Tess uttered a war-cry and slammed into the both of them, tackling them like she used to tackle her brothers when she had been younger. Tess had a lot more weight than Cat to throw around, so her blow was a lot bigger and knocked out both of the men she had thrown to the floor.

While Cat took on the other three (she had only managed to incapacitate one of them so far), Vincent and Mr. Chandler rushed through the melee to burst through Mr. Fasco's office door. Vincent's superhuman speed allowed him to grab Mr. Fasco's assailant and put him in a choke hold before said assailant could fire any bullets. Mr. Fasco looked like he could shit a brick, sweating profusely with his face redder than a farm boy during July. His small, beady eyes darted between the men in his office and the women beating the crap out of the gunmen in his reception area behind them.

"What are your orders, sir?" Vincent asked, in full soldier mode now.

"_K-keller?_" Hissed the man Vincent had his arm around.

"Sup, Silverfox. Didja miss me?" Vincent replied, ignoring Heather's, "_Go Cat!" _over his ear piece.

"You two know each other?" Asked Fasco, his voice dry and wavering.

"Oh, yeah," Vincent spat, "He tried to kill me multiple times, which I'd be fine with. I mean, plenty of people tried to kill me in Afghanistan. What I'm not fine with is the fact that he put out a hit on the woman I love."

"You're a soldier?"

"Staff Sergeant Vincent Keller, sir, Army Ranger and test subject for Operation Muirfield. At your service."

Fasco eyed Mr. Chandler. "You're not actually one of my security men, are you?"

Mr. Chandler grimaced. "Not really, sir, no." They all jumped when a solid thump and a loud cry of pain came from behind them. Catherine had just whacked the last man standing so hard with her baton his radius had broken from trying to block her blow. Tess then grabbed one of the plaques from off of the wall and smashed it over his head, knocking him out cold. The last of the hostages bolted from the reception area.

Silverfox strained against Vincent's powerful arms, but to no avail. His foot clawed at his dropped gun from where it lay on the floor, which Mr. Chandler picked up and out of his reach.

Mr. Fasco breathed a sigh of relief and said, "Stand down, Staff Sergeant." Vincent dropped his arms, letting Silverfox cower from Mr. Chandler who had his gun pointed at him. Tess and Catherine staggered into the office, blouses torn and hair out of place.

Cat forced Silverfox into a chair in front of Mr. Fasco's desk where he could be surrounded by them as he was interrogated.

Fasco took a seat in his swiveling chair, the leather upholstery groaning under his flustered weight. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief shakily before saying, "You'll forgive me if I'm out of sorts, ladies and gentlemen; I just found out that the conflict in Iraq and Afghanistan is escalating quickly. Saddam Hussein and the Taliban continue their separate reigns of tyranny. Gaza and Israel can't stop arguing over whose land it is, and North Korea has been caught using forced-labor camps to terrify opposition to their state.

"So I'd like you to tell me what in the world gives you the right to come barging into my place of business only to bring another war down on my head," Fasco regained his composure and fixed his steely gaze on Silverfox. Vincent could see now why Fasco had been chosen to direct Homeland Security: he could reign in his temper to exude a calm, cold exterior, especially under duress.

Silverfox wet his lips with that foul tongue of his. "Muirfield is in desperate need of funds. Our previous experiments were a failure, and we don't have enough men to take down the abominations we created." Vincent snorted.

Fasco's gaze shifted to Vincent. "Something you have to say, soldier?"

"He's talking about me, sir. The reason he's running out of men is because he keeps sending them after me and the people I care about."

Fasco folded his hands on the desk in front of him and shifted his glare back to Silverfox. "You don't have a lot of things going for you and your Muirfield shits."

"But-," Silverfox began to protest before Fasco slammed his palm down on his desk.

"No _buts. _I approved Operation Muirfield a year ago because I believed that you were taking our military to its fullest potential. If we had a dozen, more powerful troops instead of a hundred average ones we could cuts our casualties down astronomically. You failed in your task. It's come to my knowledge that you've executed most of the troops and the medical professionals involved in said experiments. You come into my office, my _work_, you put a gun to my head and the heads of the people who serve under me, and you ask me for _more_? If it wasn't for the so-called 'abomination' and his companions, I would be dead by your hand because I would have refused to give you anything else.

"So ask yourself, who is the real monster in this room? Who really needs getting rid of, Silverfox?" Fasco rose just as the _actual _security guards arrived, only after JT had set off the alarm once the hitmen were incapacitated. The entire two dozen in the building filtered into the reception area as Head Administrative Security Officer Winslow poked his head into Fasco's office.

"Take Silverfox and all of his unconscious men to the FBI," Fasco ordered, his voice no longer shaky, the power of his position giving him strength. "Do _not_ let the local police touch them. Make sure the hostages are well and give them the rest of the week off." Winslow nodded, and took Silverfox away in handcuffs. Fasco waited until everyone else had gone before sitting back down to face Vincent, Tess, Catherine, and Mr. Chandler.

"I assume that saving me from an assassin was not your primary objective today, Staff Sergeant Keller. What did you come here for?"

"The opposite of what Silverfox wanted, actually. I just want to be able to come out of hiding without Muirfield on my ass, sir," Vincent responded.

Fasco smirked before shifting his gaze to Catherine. "You're one hell of a fighter, young lady," he looked at Tess, "both of you. You were willing to sacrifice yourselves to make sure those hostages got out safely, without doubt or hesitation. Maybe you should consider joining the police force. They could use a couple of women like you." He looked back to Vincent. "Which one of these is yours?"

"Although I'm sure Tess is worthy of a great man, Catherine is my girl," Vincent responded, all four of them ignoring the gagging noises JT and Heather were making over their communication link.

Fasco laughed. "Muirfield was wrong to take on the likes of you two, obviously. They shouldn't have lasted for as long as they have been, but I wasn't made aware of their indiscretions until recently," he sobered when he looked at Mr. Chandler, "You must be Vanessa Chandler's husband. I'm sorry for my part in her passing." Catherine's father nodded, accepting his apology.

"And as for Silverfox and his merry little band of shits, they'll be tried for treason against the United States of America," Fasco sighed. "The last thing the citizens of this great country need is a threat from _inside."_ When they said nothing else, he grinned. "Well, you won, didn't you?" They laughed appreciatively.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Ten minutes later, when they pulled away in JT's van to give Heather and Mr. Chandler a ride back to their car, they all breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad we didn't have to blackmail him," Tess said, a gigantic, shit-eating grin on her face.

"I'm glad we didn't die," JT added.

"I'm glad I get to spend the rest of my life watching these two making goo-goo eyes at each other," Heather jibed, referring to the way Catherine was nestled in Vincent's arms on the floor. Cat stuck her tongue out good-naturedly at her little sister.

"I feel like yelling, 'My name is Vincent Keller and I'm not legally dead' from every rooftop in Manhattan," Vincent sighed, just happy to have gotten out in one piece.

"We should have a party," JT suggested from the front driver's seat.

"Yeah, and the banner will say: 'We Fucked Muirfield'," Tess joked. They spent the rest of the day at Vincent and Catherine's place, getting to know one another through games and conversation. It was a lot easier to talk to each other without this weight hanging over them, like a dark, oppressive storm cloud.

The question they couldn't stop thinking to themselves was: What now?

**OMG THAT WAS FUN TO WRITE. There's still a couple of chapters to go, but then it's on to my new historical AU fic which features even MORE badassery but less psychological baggage. **


	19. Bound

**AN: I'm pretty sure this is the last chapter! A big thanks to everyone who's been reviewing and giving input along the way. It honestly warms my heart to see what y'all think of what I've been posting. **

**My next story should be starting later this week, but it'll be more of a fantasy/historical AU than this story. It'll probably have the same amount of violence and sex as Game of Thrones or any other show on HBO (okay, maybe a little less sex in the beginning but you get my point). **

_bound: to be held together, whether by string, rope, or chains; to be inseparable by outside forces_

_Six months later_

Catherine arrived to the warehouse just as the moon peeked out from behind its place behind the sunset. Her neck ached from having to stay awake during her classes at the police academy, especially when Tess had been sitting next to her adding snarky comments to what their teacher was lecturing them on. The course work itself was easy compared to the education she received from Princeton, but the physical training was a whole number ball game. The only reason she could keep up with her much larger and more muscular police cadets was because of her training sessions with Vincent.

Speaking of Vincent, his car was parked outside of the warehouse when she pulled up. His shift at the ER must've gotten over with early tonight. Vincent was keeping his fingers crossed for a promotion to a surgeon in the OR, where he could cut down on his hours and pull in twice the money. He was certainly skilled enough to do it, at least that's what the chief medical officer told him when she had been making her rounds about the hospital a couple of weeks earlier.

Catherine staggered inside, somewhat excited to be home at the same time as Vincent was: a rarity since they both began working. She perked her ears up to the sound of music filtering through the ceiling of the lower level of the warehouse. The unmistakable rasp of a brass band in a jazz song was what she heard as she ran up the steps into their apartment.

She gasped as she entered their loft: lit candles were perched on just about every available space, their plastic folding table had been covered with a beautiful tablecloth, and the windows were opened to let the summer night's breeze to circulate throughout their apartment. Vincent had just finished setting a fabulous steak and mashed-potato ensemble dinner on the table settings, singing along to the song he had blasting through the speakers. Catherine recognized it to be Tina Turner's hit classic 'Proud Mary' as Vincent squawked along with his normally voice at falsetto along with Miss Turner.

He swayed and swished his hips to the beat, his pleated slacks framing his butt nicely as he danced, apparently not aware that his beloved had arrived home over the volume of the music. Catherine clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling the giggles threatening to spill out of her lips. _What a dork_, she thought happily to herself. For all his manly bravado he kept up for his friends, his patients, and his colleagues, Vincent could be such a _girl _sometimes.

"_Big wheel keep on turnin'," _he sang, "_Proud Mary keep on burnin'." _Vincent whirled around to hear Catherine singing along with him, his expression not unlike that of a deer caught in a semi's headlights. He flashed her an awkward smile before grabbing the stereo remote and turning off the music. Catherine let her hand fall and burst into laughter. His somewhat wounded expression made it hard for her to breath between giggles, but she pulled him into a hug anyways.

Once she had had quelled her fit of laughter, she kissed him, a simple peck more of a greeting than anything else. She still had her hands cupped around the back of his neck, his around her waist, when she asked, "What is all of this?" She was of course referring to the romantic fantasy he had laid out for this evening (something similar to the trail of roses he had for her on Valentine's Day).

His soft, brown eyes seemed lost for a moment, searching her face as if he were seeing it for the first time. "I love you, Catherine," Vincent's serious tone made her raise an eyebrow.

"You got promoted to an OR surgeon, didn't you?" She asked.

Vincent grinned. "Yeah. But that's not what this is about. I realized today that I didn't want to move forward in my future without you," his smile fell and he became serious again. "You pulled me from a dark place, a place I didn't think I could've ever gotten out of." He swallowed and seemed to have to push himself to get his next words out. "There were a couple of months after Afghanistan where I contemplated suicide."

Catherine's eyes brimmed with tears. "I had no idea."

Vincent's voice cracked a little. "I didn't know what you would think of me if I told you." He cupped her face, stroking her cheeks with his calloused thumbs. "I love you."

"You keep saying that," she replied, "Vincent, where are you going with this?" Her heart pounded in her chest, something he could hear with his superhuman senses.

"I, uh, was going to wait until after dinner to do this. But I just looked at you and I can't keep myself from doing it one _second _longer," he let go of her face and disentangled himself from her embrace to drop down onto one knee. He pulled a ring from his back pocket as he looked upon her beautiful face.

"Catherine Chandler," Vincent began, over her sobbing gasp, "will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" Catherine had her hand over her mouth as tears poured down her cheeks, her heart pounding even harder in her chest, beating wildly like a war drum. Her hands shook as she choked on her reply.

"I-I," she couldn't even get her words out before she just nodded vigorously. "You didn't even have to ask, Vincent," she cried as he clumsily slid the small, golden band on her finger. "It was _always _yes. Yes, yes, emphatically yes!" Catherine pulled him to his feet before pulling him into a fiery kiss. Romance movies had nothing on this: it was a kiss for the ages, something they would do a million times over in front of their friends, family, children, and even grandchildren.

"I love you," she murmured against his lips, "I love you, I love you, I love you," she repeated over and over as she broke the kiss to hug him close to her. He laughed, sweeping her off of her feet to whirl them around. He set her on her feet before grabbing the remote to the stereo, which began to hum out 'L-O-V-E' by Nat King Cole.

They swayed together as the candles and moonlight illuminated their dance. Their dinner lay forgotten on the plastic folding table as the ring on Catherine's finger and the gold flecks in her amber eyes held their charms on Vincent's heart. They stepped out at each staccato burst of trumpet sound, Vincent spinning Catherine over riffs and cascades in the song.

"_And love is all that I can give to you," _Vincent sang, his raspy baritone much more well suited to sing along to Mr. Cole than Tina Turner.

"_Love is more than just a game for two,_" Catherine responded, having sung this song a million times over during karaoke sessions with her sister and Tess. Somehow, this song had a lot more meaning when it was just her and Vincent singing together.

"_Two in love can make it. Take my heart and please don't break it," _they managed to warble out together, giggling at their out-of-tune voices as Nat King Cole sang out the rest of the song. They looked into ear other's eyes, more in love now than ever.

"_Love was made for me and you."_ They kissed again as the final brass shout section blared out of Vincent's stereo.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Today was the beginning of the rest of their forever. Catherine would go on to be partnered to Tess as detectives for the brand-new Special Crimes Unit and they would make a record amount of solved cases and arrests in the city of New York. Vincent retired from being the head surgeon at New York General after only five years, and instead opened up a free clinic in Harlem to help people without insurance.

Their friends and colleagues would remark that, even after being together for years, their love and passion for each other had never faded. They had finally found their way in life with each other, trusting without hesitation or doubt.

Vincent and Catherine Keller were tied together with chains forged from their hardship and perseverance. Their rings, which they received on September 29, 2005 at their wedding, surrounded by their loved ones, were inscribed with a message they had separately written for the other. Ironically, they hadn't consulted each other in writing said messages, but they both ended up the same, reading:

_I am bound to you_

**Oh my sadness. This story is over and I am crying holy Jesus thank you to everyone who read this 'till the end. A big thanks to:**

**rjt040190**

**Megrock7**

**Bonesbemmettlover**

**Romanian Bookworm**

**Seru Wolf**

**Karrtoonmonkey**

**CJ**

**Caritosec**

**LovelyLadyD**

**Russetfurbr**

**Oa17**

**E.B. Cameron**

**Nina2988**

**Mystryfann**

**And everyone else that viewed and stuck through it. I LOVE YOU GUYS!**


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